LIBRARY 

ersKy  of  California^ 
IRVINE 


WREATH  OF... 
VIRGINIA  BAY  LEAVES 


POEAS 


JAAES   BARRON   HOPE. 


Selected  ar\d  Edited  by  tys  Daughter, 
JANEY  HOPE 


RICHMOND.  VA.: 

WEST,  JOHNSTON  &  Co.,  PUBLISHERS. 
1895. 


p 


Copyright.  18^5,  by 
JANtv    HOPE    MARR. 


To  the  memory  of  the  gallant  little  lad  who  bore  his  grandfather's 
name  and  image— to  the  dear  remembrance  of 

Barren   Mope   3Morr 

His  mother  dedicates  whatsoever  there  may  be  of  worth  in  her 
effort  to  show  James  Barron  Hope,  the  Poet,  as  Vir 
ginia's  Laureate,  and  James  Barron  Hope, 
the  Man,  as  he  was  loved  and  rev 
erenced  by  his  house 
hold  and  his 
friends. 


MONUMENT  TO  JAMES  BARBON  Horn, 
in  Klmwuod  Cemetery,  Norfolk,  Virginia. 


INTRODUCTION. 

IT  has  been  claimed  for  James  Barren  Hope  that  he  was 
"  Virginia's  Laureate."  He  did  not  deal  in  "abstractions, 
or  generalized  arguments,"  or  vague  mysticisms.  He 
fired  the  imagination  purely,  he  awoke  lofty  thoughts  and 
presented,  through  his  noble  odes  that  which  is  the  soul 
of  "  every  true  poem,  a  living  succession  of  concrete 
images  and  pictures." 

James  Barren,  the  elder,  organized  the  Virginia  Colo 
nial  Navy,  of  which  he  was  commander-in-chief  during 
the  Revolution,  and  his  sons,  Samuel  and  James,  served 
gallantly  in  the  United  States  Navy.  It  was  from  these 
ancestors  that  James  Barren  Hope  derived  that  unswerv 
ing  devotion  to  his  native  state  for  which  he  was  re 
markable,  and  it  was  at  the  residence  of  his  grandfather, 
Commodore  James  Barren,  the  younger,  who  then  com 
manded  the  Gosport  Navy-yard,  that  he  was  born  the 
23d  of  March,  1829. 

His  mother,  Jane  Barren,  was  the  eldest  daughter  of 
the  Commodore  and  most  near  to  his  regard.  An  attract 
ive  gentlewoman  of  the  old  school,  generous,  of  quick 
and  lively  sympathies,  she  wielded  a  clever,  ready  pen, 

5 


A   Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

and  the  brush  and  embroiderer's  needle  in  a  manner  not 
to  be  scorned  in  those  days,  and  was  a  personage  in  her 
family. 

Her  child  was  the  child  not  only  of  her  material,  but 
of  her  spiritual  being,  and  the  two  were  closely  knit  as 
the  years  passed,  in  mutual  affection  and  confidence,  in 
tastes  and  aspirations. 

His  father  was  Wilton  Hope  of  "  Bethel,"  Elizabeth 
City  County,  a  handsome,  talented  man,  a  landed  pro 
prietor,  of  a  family  whose  acres  bordered  the  picturesque 
waters  of  Hampton  River. 

He  gained  his  early  education  at  Germantown,  Penn 
sylvania,  and  at  the  "  Academy  "  in  Hampton,  Virginia, 
under  his  venerated  master,  John  B.  Gary,  Esq., — the 
master  who  declares  himself  proud  to  say,  "  I  taught 
him  " — the  invaluable  friend  of  all  his  after  years. 

In  1847  he  graduated  from  William  and  Mary  College 
with  the  degree  of  A.  B. 

From  the  "  Pennsylvania,"  upon  which  man-of-war  he 
was  secretary  to  his  uncle,  Captain  Samuel  Barren,  he 
was  transferred  to  the  "  Cyane,"  and  in  1852  made  a  cruise 
to  the  West  Indies. 

In  1856  he  was  elected  Commonwealth's  attorney  to 
the  "game-cock  town  of  Virginia,"  historic  and  pictur 
esque  old  Hampton,  which  was  the  centre  of  a  charming 

6 


Introduction. 

and  cultivated  society  and  which  had  already  claimed 
him  as  her  "bard."  For  as  Henry  Ellen  he  had  con 
tributed  to  various  southern  publications,  his  poems  in 
"The  Southern  Literary  Messenger"  attracting  much 
gratifying  attention. 

In  1857  Lippincott  brought  out  "Leoni  di  Monota  and 
Other  Poems."  The  volume  was  cordially  noticed 
by  the  southern  critics  of  the  time,  not  only  for  its  central 
poem,  but  also  for  several  of  its  minor  ones,  notably, 
"The  Charge  at  Balaklava,"  which  G.  P.  R.  James — as 
have  others  since — declared  unsurpassed  by  Tennyson's 
41  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade." 

Upon  the  i3th  of  May,  1857,  he  stood  poet  at  the  25oth 
anniversary  of  the  English  settlement  at  Jamestown. 

As  poet,  and  as  the  youthful  colleague  of  Henry  A. 
Wise  and  John  R.  Thompson,  he  stood  at  the  base  of 
Crawford's  statue  of  Washington,  in  the  Capitol  Square, 
Richmond,  Virginia,  the  22d  of  February,  1858.  That 
same  year  these  recited  poems,  together  with  some  mis 
cellaneous  ones  were  published. 

Congress  chose  him  as  poet  for  the  Yorktown  Centen 
nial,  1881,  and  his  "brilliant  and  masterly  poem  was  a 
fitting  companion  piece  to  the  splendid  oration  delivered 
upon  that  occasion  by  the  renowned  orator,  Robert  C. 
Winthrop." 

7 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

This  metrical  address  "  Arms  and  the  Man,"  with  va 
rious  sonnets  was  published  the  next  year.  As  the 
flower  of  his  genius,  its  noble  measures  only  revealed 
their  full  beauty  when  they  fell  from  the  lips  of  him  who 
framed  them,  and  it  was  under  this  spell  that  one  of  those 
who  had  thronged  about  him  that  ipth  of  October  cried 
out :  "  Now  I  understand  the  power  by  which  the  old 
Greek  poets  swayed  the  men  of  their  generation." 

Again  his  State  called  upon  him  to  weave  among  her 
annals  the  laurels  of  his  verse  at  the  laying  of  the  corner 
stone  of  the  monument  erected  in  Richmond  to  Robert 
E.  Lee.  The  corner-stone  was  laid  October,  1887,  but  the 
poet's  voice  had  been  stilled  forever.  He  died  Septem 
ber  the  I5th,  as  he  had  often  wished  to  die,  "in  harness," 
and  at  home,  and  Death  came  swift  and  painless. 

His  poem,  save  for  the  after  softening  touches,  had  been 
finished  the  previous  day,  and  was  recited  at  the  appointed 
time  and  place  by  Captain  William  Gordon  McCabe. 

"  Memoriae  Sacrum,"  the  Lee  Memorial  Ode,  has  been 
pronounced  by  many  his  masterpiece,  and  waked  this 
noble  echo  in  a  brother  poet's  soul : 

"  Like  those  of  whom  the  olden  scriptures  tell, 
Who  faltered  not,  but  went  on  dangerous  quest, 

For  one  cool  draught  of  water  from  the  well 

With  which  to  cheer  their  exiled  monarch's  breast ; 


Introduction. 

So  thou  to  add  one  single  laurel  more 
To  our  great  chieftain's  fame — heedless  of  pain 

Didst  gather  up  thy  failing  strength  and  pour 
Out  all  thy  soul  in  one  last  glorious  strain. 


And  when  the  many  pilgrims  come  to  gaze 

Upon  the  sculptured  form  of  mighty  Lee, 
They'll  not  forget  the  bard  who  sang  his  praise 

With  dying  breath,  but  deathless  melody. 
For  on  the  statue  which  a  country  rears, 

Tho'  graven  by  no  hand,  we'll  surely  see, 
E'en  tho'  it  be  thro'  blinding  mists  of  tears, 

Thy  name  forever  linked  with  that  of  Lee." 

— Rev.  Beverly  D.   Tucker. 

His  genius  had  flowered  not  out  of  opulence,  or  con 
genial  occupation,  but  out  of  the  tread-mill  of  newspaper 
life,  and  under  such  conditions  from  1870-1887  he  de 
livered  the  poem  at  Lynehburg's  celebration  of  its  found 
ing;  at  the  unveiling  of  the  monument  raised  to  Annie 
Lee  by  the  ladies  of  Warren  County,  North  Carolina  ; 
memorial  odes  in  Warrenton,  Virginia,  in  Portsmouth, 
and  Norfolk,  and  at  the  Virginia  Military  Institute. 
He  was  the  first  commander  of  Norfolk's  Camp  of  Con 
federate  Veterans,  the  Pickett-Buchanan,  but  through  all 
his  stirring  lines  there  breaks  no  discordant  note  of  hate 

9 


A   Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

or  rancor.  He  also  sent  into  print,  "  Little  Stories  for 
Little  People,"  and  his  novel  "  Madelon,"  and  delivered 
among  various  masterly  addresses,  "  Virginia — Her  Past, 
Present  and  Future,"  and  "  The  Press  and  the  Printer's 
Devil." 

During  these  years  he  had  suffered  a  physical  agony 
well-nigh  past  the  bearing,  but  which  he  bore  with  a 
wonderful  patience  and  fortitude,  and  not  only  bore,  but 
hid  away  from  those  nearest  to  him.  He  had  brought 
both  broken  health  and  fortunes  out  of  the  war ;  for 
when  in  1861  the  people  of  Hampton  left  the  town,*  "  Its 
men  to  join  the  Southern  army,  and  its  women  to  go  in 
exile  for  four  long  weary  years,  returning  thence  to  find 
their  homes  in  ashes,  *  *  James  Barren  Hope  was  among 
the  first  who  left  their  household  gods  behind  to  take  up 
arms  for  their  native  State,  and  he  bore  his  part  nobly  in 
the  great  conflict." 

When  it  ended  he  did  not  return  to  Hampton,  or  to  the 
practice  of  his  profession.  Instead  of  the  law  he  em 
barked  in  journalism  in  Norfolk,  Virginia,  and,  despite 
its  lack  of  entire  congeniality,  made  therefrom  a  career 
as  brilliant  as  it  was  fearless  and  unsullied. 


*"They  themselves  applying  the  torch  to  their  own  homes  under  the 
patriotic,  but  mistaken  idea  that  they  would  thus  arrest  the  march  of  the 
Invaders."  ("  Col.  Gary's  address  at  unveiling  of  monument  to  Captain 
Hope.") 

10 


Introduction. 

He  was  a  little  under  six  feet  in  height,  slender,  grace 
ful,  and  finely  proportioned,  with  hands  and  feet  of  dis 
tinctive  beauty.  And  his  fingers  were  gifted  with  a 
woman's  touch  in  the  sick-room,  and  an  artist's  grasp 
upon  the  pencil  and  the  brush  of  the  water-colorist. 

It  was  said  of  him  that  his  manner  was  as  courtly  as 
that  of  u  Sir  Roger  de  Coverly."  Words  which  though 
fitly  applied  are  but  as  the  bare  outlines  of  a  picture,  for  he 
was  the  embodiment  of  what  was  best  in  the  Old  South. 
He  was  gifted  with  a  rare  charm.  There  was  charm  in 
his  pale  face,  which  in  conversation  flashed  out  of  its 
deep  thoughtfulness  into  vivid  animation.  His  fine  head 
was  crowned  with  soft  hair  fast  whitening  before  its  time. 
His  eyes  shone  under  his  broad  white  forehead,  wise  and 
serene,  until  his  dauntless  spirit,  or  his  lofty  enthusiasm 
awoke  to  fire  their  gray  depths.  His  was  a  face  that 
women  trusted  and  that  little  children  looked  up  into  with 
smiles.  Those  whom  he  called  friend  learned  the  mean 
ing  of  that  name,  and  he  drew  and  linked  men  to  him 
from  all  ranks  and  conditions  of  life. 

Beloved  by  many,  those  who  guard  his  memory  coin  the 
very  fervor  of  their  hearts  into  the  speech  with  which  they 
link  his  name.  "A  very  Chevalier  Bayard  "  he  was  called. 

Of  him  was  quoted  that  noble  epitaph  on  the  great 
Lord  Fairfax  : 


A   Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

"  '  Both  sexes'  virtues  in  him  combined, 
He  had  the  fierceness  of  the  manliest  mind, 
And  all  the  meekness  too  of  woman  kind. 

"  He  never  knew  what  envy  was,  nor  hate. 
His  soul  was  filled  with  worth  and  honesty, 
And  with  another  thing  quite  out  of  date,  called  modesty.' " 

No  sketch  could  approach  justice  toward  Captain 
Hope  without  at  least  a  brief  review  of  his  domestic  life. 

In  1857  he  had  married  Miss  Annie  Beverly  Whiting 
of  Hampton.  Hers  were  the  face  and  form  to  take  cap 
tive  his  poet's  fancy,  and  she  possessed  a  character  as 
lovely  as  her  person  ;  a  courage  and  strength  of  will  far 
out  of  proportion  to  her  dainty  shape,  and  an  intellect  of 
masculine  robustness.  Often  the  editor  brought  his  work 
to  the  table  of  his  library  that  he  might  avail  himself  of 
his  wife's  judgment,  and  labor  with  the  faces  around  him 
that  he  loved,  for  their  union  was  a  very  congenial  one, 
and  when  two  daughters  came  to  bless  it,  as  husband  and 
father,  he  poured  out  the  treasures  of  his  heart,  his 
mind  and  soul.  To  his  children  he  was  a  wise  teacher, 
a  tender  guide,  an  unfailing  friend,  the  most  delightful 
of  companions.  His  sympathy  for  and  his  understanding 
of  young  people  never  aged,  and  he  had  a  circle  of  dear 
and  familiar  friends  of  varying  ages  that  gathered  about 
him  once  a  week.  There,  beside  his  own  hearth,  his 

12 


Introduction. 

ready  wit,  his  kindly  humor  sparkled  most  brightly,  and 
there  flowed  forth  most  evenly  that  speech  accounted  by 
many  well  worth  the  hearing.  For  his  was  also  the  art 
of  listening  ;  he  not  only  led  the  expression  of  thought, 
but  inspired  it  in  others.  His  own  roof-tree  looked  down 
upon  James  Barren  Hope  at  his  best  and  down  upon  a 
home  in  the  sacred  sense  of  the  word,  for  he  touched 
with  poetry  the  prose  of  daily  living,  and  left  to 
those  who  loved  him  the  blessed  legacy  of  a  memory 
which  death  cannot  take  from  them. 

I  have  said  that  in  his  early  years  Old  Hampton  claim 
ed  him.  He  became  the  son  of  the  city  of  his  adoption 
and  sleeps  among  her  dead. 

Above  his  ashes  rises  a  shaft,  fashioned  from  the  stones 
of  the  State  he  loved  so  well  which  proclaims  that  it  is 
"  The  tribute  of  his  friends  offered  to  the  memory  of  the 
Poet,  Patriot,  Scholar,  and  Journalist  and  the  Knightly 
Virginia  Gentleman." 

JANEY  HOPE  MARK, 

LEXINGTON,  VA. 
13 


INDEX. 

PAGE. 

The  Charge  at  Balaklava 17-21 

A  Short  Sermon 22-23 

A  Little  Picture 24~2S 

A  Reply  to  a  Young  Lady 26 

A  Story  of  the  Caracas  Valley 27-39 

Three  Summer  Studies 4°~44 

The  Washington  Memorial  Ode 45~57 

How  it  Fell  Calm  on  Summer  Night 58 

A  Friend  of  Mine ....  59-62 

Indolence       63 

The  Jamestown  Anniversary  Ode 64-67 

An  Elegiac  Ode 68-69 

The  Cadets  at  New  Market 70 

Our  Heroic  Dead 71-73 

Mahone's  Brigade       74-82 

The  Portsmouth  Memorial  Poem — The  Future  Historian  .  83-88 

Arms  and  The  Man 89-131 

Prologue 89 

The  Dead  Statesman 90 

The  Colonies 92 

.,    f  The  New  England  Group.   .    .  • 93 

The  Southern  Colonies 95 

The  Old  Dominion 97 

The  Oaks  and  the  Tempest 97 

The  Embattled  Colonies 99 

Welcome  to  France .  100 

The  Allies  at  Yorktown 103 

The  Ravages  of  War 104 


Index. 

PAGE. 
Arms  and  The  Man — 

The  Lines  Around  Yorktown 105 

The  French  in  the  Trenches 107 

Nelson  and  the  Gunners 108 

The  Beleaguered  Town 108 

Storming  the  Redoubts no 

The  Two  Leaders 113 

The  Beginning  of  the  End 1X4 

The  Surrender  of  Lord  Cornwallis 116 

Our  Ancient  Allies. 117 

The  Continentals 118 

The  Marquis 119 

The  Ancient  Enemies 119 

The  Splendid  Three 120 

The  War  Horse  Draws  the  Plough 122 

Heroes  and  Statesmen 123 

Pater  Patriae 126 

The  Flag  of  the  Republic 128 

The  South  in  the  Union 129 

To  Alexander  Gait,  the  Sculptor 132-136 

To  the  Poet-Priest  Ryan 137-138 

Three  Names 139-141 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh 139 

Captain  John  Smith 140 

Pocahontas 141 

Sunset  on  Hampton  Roads 142 

A  King's  Gratitude 143 

"The  Twinses" .....   ,   .          144 

Dreamers 145 

Under  One  Blanket ...  .'  ....   .    .   .    ,V.    .    .  146-148 

The  Lee  Memorial  Ode    .    .   .   .....   *,;.  .; ',  ;  v.   .   .149-159 

16 


A  WREATH  OF  VIRGINIA  BAY  LEAVES. 


THE  CHARGE  AT  BALAKLAVA. 

NOLAN  halted  where  the  squadrons, 
Stood  impatient  of  delay, 
Out  he  drew  his  brief  dispatches, 
Which  their  leader  quickly  snatches, 
At  a  glance  their  meaning  catches  ; 
They  are  ordered  to  the  fray  ! 

All  that  morning  they  had  waited  — 
As  their  frowning  faces  showed, 

Horses  stamping,  riders  fretting, 

And  their  teeth  together  setting  ; 

Not  a  single  sword-blade  wetting 
As  the  battle  ebbed  and  flowed. 

Now  the  fevered  spell  is  broken, 
Every  man  feels  twice  as  large, 

Every  heart  is  fiercely  leaping, 

As  a  lion  roused  from  sleeping, 

For  they  know  they  will  be  sweeping 
In  a  moment  to  the  charge. 

17 


A   Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

Brightly  gleam  six  hundred  sabres, 

And  the  brazen  trumpets  ring  ; 
Steeds  are  gathered,  spurs  are  driven, 
And  the  heavens  widely  riven 
With  a  mad  shout  upward  given, 
Scaring  vultures  on  the  wing. 

Stern  its  meaning  ;  was  not  Gallia 
Looking  down  on  Albion's  sons? 
In  each  mind  this  thought  implanted, 
Undismayed  and  all  undaunted, 
By  the  battle-fiends  enchanted, 
They  ride  down  upon  the  guns. 

Onward  !   On  1  the  chargers  trample  ; 

Quicker  falls  each  iron  heel ! 
And  the  headlong  pace  grows  faster  ; 
Noble  steed  and  noble  master, 
Rushing  on  to  red  disaster, 

Where  the  heavy  cannons  peal. 

In  the  van  rides  Captain  Nolan  ; 

Soldier  stout  he  was  and  brave ! 
And  his  shining  sabre  flashes, 
As  upon  the  foe  he  dashes  : 
God  !  his  face  turns  white  as  ashes, 

He  has  ridden  to  his  grave ! 

Down  he  fell,  prone  from  his  saddle, 

Without  motion,  without  breath, 
Never  more  a  trump  to  waken — 
18 


The  Charge  at  Balakla-va. 

He  the  very  first  one  taken, 
From  the  bough  so  sorely  shaken, 
In  the  vintage-time  of  Death. 

In  a  moment,  in  a  twinkling, 

He  was  gathered  to  his  rest ; 
In  the  time  for  which  he'd  waited — 
With  his  gallant  heart  elated — 
Down  went  Nolan,  decorated 

With  a  death  wound  on  his  breast. 

Comrades  still  are  onward  charging, 

He  is  lying  on  the  sod : 
Onward  still  their  steeds  are  rushing 
Where  the  shot  and  shell  are  crushing  ; 
From  his  corpse  the  blood  is  gushing, 

And  his  soul  is  with  his  God. 

As  they  spur  on,  what  strange  visions 
Flit  across  each  rider's  brain  ! 

Thoughts  of  maidens  fair,  of  mothers, 

Friends  and  sisters,  wives  and  brothers,, 

Blent  with  images  of  others, 

Whom  they  ne'er  shall  see  again. 

Onward  still  the  squadrons  thunder — 

Knightly  hearts  were  their's  and  brave, 
Men  and  horses  without  number 
All  the  furrowed  ground  encumber — 
Falling  fast  to  their  last  slumber — 
Bloody  slumber  !  bloody  grave ! 
19 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

Of  that  charge  at  Balaklava — 

In  its  chivalry  sublime — 
Vivid,  grand,  historic  pages 
Shall  descend  to  future  ages ; 
Poets,  painters,  hoary  sages 

Shall  record  it  for  all  time ; 

Telling  how  those  English  horsemen 
Rode  the  Russian  gunners  down  ; 

How  with  ranks  all  torn  and  shattered  ; 

How  with  helmets  hacked  and  battered  ; 

How  with  sword  arms  blood-bespattered  ; 
They  won  honor  and  renown. 

'Twas  "  not  war,"  but  it  was  splendid 

As  a  dream  of  old  romance  ; 
Thinking  which  their  Gallic  neighbors 
Thrilled  to  watch  them  at  their  labors, 
Hewing  red  graves  with  their  sabres 

In  that  wonderful  advance. 

Down  went  many  a  gallant  soldier  ; 

Down  went  many  a  stout  dragoon  ; 
Lying  grim,  and  stark,  and  gory, 
On  the  crimson  field  of  glory, 
Leaving  us  a  noble  story 

And  their  white-cliffed  home  a  boon. 

Full  of  hopes  and  aspirations 

Were  their  hearts  at  dawn  of  day  ; 
Now,  with  forms  all  rent  and  broken, 

20 


The  Charge  at  Balaklava. 

Bearing  each  some  frightful  token 
Of  a  scene  ne'er  to  be  spoken, 
In  their  silent  sleep  they  lay. 

Here  a  noble  charger  stiffens, 
There  his  rider  grasps  the  hilt 

Of  his  sabre  lying  bloody 

By  his  side,  upon  the  muddy, 

Trampled  ground,  which  darkly  ruddy 
Shows  the  blood  that  he  has  spilt. 

And  to-night  the  moon  shall  shudder 
As  she  looks  down  on  the  moor, 

Where  the  dead  of  hostile  races 

Slumber,  slaughtered  in  their  places  ; 

All  their  rigid  ghastly  faces 
Spattered  hideously  with  gore. 

And  the  sleepers  !  ah,  the  sleepers 
Make  a  Westminster  that  day ; 

'Mid  the  seething  battle's  lava  ! 

And  each  man  who  fell  shall  have  a 

Proud  inscription — BALAKLAVA, 
Which  shall  never  fade  away. 


A   Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

A  SHORT  SERMON. 
"  He  that  giveth  to  the  poor,  lendeth  to  the  Lord." 

THE  night-wind  comes  in  sudden  squalls 
The  ruddy  fire-light  starts  and  falls 
Fantastically  on  the  walls. 

The  bare  trees  all  their  branches  wave ; 
The  frantic  wind  doth  howl  and  rave, 
Like  prairie-wolf  above  a  grave. 

The  moon  looks  out ;  but  cold  and  pale, 
And  seeming  scar'd  at  this  wild  gale 
Draws  o'er  her  pallid  face  a  veil. 

In  vain  I  turn  the  poet's  page — 
In  vain  consult  some  ancient  sage — 
I  hear  alone  the  tempest  rage. 

The  shutters  tug  at  hinge  and  bar — 
The  windows  clash  with  frosty  jar — 
The  child  creeps  closer  to  "  Papa." 

And  now,  I  almost  start  aghast, 
The  clamor  rises  thick  and  fast, 
Surely  a  troop  of  fiends  drove  past ! 

That  last  shock  shook  the  oaken  door, 
Sounding  like  billows  on  the  shore, 
On  such  a  night  God  shield  the  poor ! 


A   Short  Sermon. 

God  shield  the  poor  to-night,  who  stay 
In  piteous  homes !  who,  if  they  pray, 
Ask  thee,  oh  God !  for  bread  and  day ! 

Think  !  think  !  ye  men  who  daily  wear 
"  Purple  and  linen  " — ye  whose  hair 
Flings  perfume  on  the  temper'd  air. 

Think  !   think  !  I  say,  aye  !  start  and  think 
That  many  tremble  on  death's  brink — 
Dying  for  want  of  meat  and  drink. 

When  tatter'd  poor  folk  meet  your  eyes, 
Think,  friend,  like  Christian,  in  this  wise, 
Each  one  is  Christ  hid  in  disguise. 

Then  when  you  hear  the  tempest's  roar 
That  thunders  at  your  carved  door, 
Know  that,  it  knocketh  for  the  poor. 

23 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 


A  LITTLE  PICTURE.      - 

OFT  when  pacing  thro'  the  long  and  dim 
Dark  gallery  of  the  Past,  I  pause  before 
A  picture  of  which  this  is  a  copy  — 
Wretched  at  best. 

How  fair  she  look'd,  standing  a-tiptoe  there, 
Pois'd  daintily  upon  her  little  feet  ! 
The  slanting  sunset  falling  thro'  the  leaves 
In  golden  glory  on  her  smiling  face, 
Upturn'd  towards  the  blushing  roses  ;   while 
The  breeze  that  came  up  from  the  river's  brink, 
Shook  all  their  clusters  over  her  fair  face  ; 
And  sported  with  her  robe,  until  methought, 
That  she  stood  there  clad  wondrously  indeed  ! 
In  perfume  and  in  music  :   for  her  dress 
Made  a  low,  rippling  sound,  like  little  waves 
That  break  at  midnight  on  the  tawny  sands  — 
While  all  the  evening  air  of  roses  whisper'd. 
Over  her  face  a  rich,  warm  blush  spread  slowly, 
And  she  laughed,  a  low,  sweet,  mellow  laugh 
To  see  the  branches  still  evade  her  hands  — 
Her  small  white  hands  which  seem'd  indeed  as  if 
Made  only  thus  to  gather  roses. 

Then  with  face 

All  flushed  and  smiling  she  did  nod  to  me 
Asking  my  help  to  gather  them  for  her  : 

24 


A  Little  Picture. 

And  so,  I  bent  the  heavy  clusters  down, 
Show'ring  the  rose-leaves  o'er  her  neck  and  face; 
Then  carefully  she  plucked  the  very  fairest  one, 
And  court'seying  playfully  gave  it  to  me — 
Show'd  me  her  finger-tip,  pricked  by  a  thorn, 
And  when  I  would  have  kiss'd  it,  shook  her  head, 
Kiss'd  it  herself,  and  mock'd  me  with  a  smile ! 

The  rose  she  gave  me  sleeps  between  the  leaves 
Of  an  old  poet  where  its  sight  oft  brings 
That  summer  evening  back  again  to  me. 

25 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves, 


A  REPLY  TO  A  YOUNG  LADY. 

"  I  can  easier  teach  twenty  what  were  good  to  be  done 
Than  to  be  one  of  the  twenty  to  follow  my  own  teaching." 

—-Merchant  of  Venice. 

"Do  as  I  tell  you, and  not  as  I  do." 

— Old  Saying. 

YOU  say,  a  "  moral  sign-post "  I 
Point  out  the  road  towards  the  sky  ; 
And  then  with  glance  so  very  shy 
You  archly  ask  me,  lady,  why 
I  hesitate  myself  to  go 
In  the  direction  which  I  show  ? 

To  answer  is  an  easy  task, 
If  you  allow  me  but  to  ask 
One  little  question,  sweet,  of  you  : — 
'Tis  this  :  should  sign-posts  travel  too 
What  would  bewildered  pilgrims  do — 
Celestial  pilgrims,  such  as  you  ? 
26 


A  Story  of  the  Caracas  Valley. 


A  STORY  OF  THE  CARACAS  VALLEY. 

HIGH-PERCH'D  upon  the  rocky  way, 
Stands  a  Posada  stern  and  grey ; 
Which  from  the  valley,  seems  as  if, 
A  condor  there  had  paus'd  to  'light 
And  rest  upon  that  lonely  cliff, 
From  some  stupendous  flight ; 
But  when  the  road  you  gain  at  length, 
It  seems  a  ruin'd  hold  of  strength, 
With  archway  dark,  and  bridge  of  stone, 
By  waving  shrubs  all  overgrown, 
Which  cling  around  that  ruin'd  gate, 
Making  it  look  less  desolate ; 
For  here  and  there,  a  wild  flower's  bloom 
With  brilliant  hue  relieves  the  gloom, 
Which  clings  'round  that  Posada's  wall — 
A  sort  of  misty  funeral  pall. 

The  gulf  spann'd  by  that  olden  arch 
Might  stop  an  army's  onward  march, 
For  dark  and  dim — far  down  below — 
'Tis  lost  amid  a  torrent's  flow  ; 
And  blending  with  the  eagle's  scream 
Sounds  dismally  that  mountain- stream, 
That  rushes  foaming  down  a  fall 
Which  Chamois  hunter  might  appal, 
27 


A   Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

Nor  shame  his  manhood,  did  he  shrink 
In  treading  on  its  dizzy  brink. 

In  years  long  past,  ere  bridge  or  wall 
Had  spann'd  that  gulf  and  water-fall, 
"Pis  said — perhaps,  an  idle  tale — 
That  on  the  road  above  the  vale 
Occurr'd  as  strange  and  wild  a  scene, 
As  ever  ballad  told,  I  ween. — 
Yes,  on  this  road  which  seems  to  be 
Suspended  o'er  eternity  ; 
So  dim — so  shadow-like — the  vale 
O'er  which  it  hangs  :  but  to  my  tale  : 
Once,  'tis  well-known,  this  sunny  land 
Was  ravag'd  by  full  many  a  band 

Of  reckless  buccaneers. 
Cities  were  captur'd* — old  men  slain  ; 
Trampled  the  fields  of  waving  cane  ; 
Or  scatter'd  wide  the  garner'd  grain ; 

An  hour  wrought  wreck  of  years  ! 

Where'er  these  stern  freebooters  trod, 
In  hacienda — church  of  God — 
Or,  on  the  green-enamell'd  sod — 

They  left  foot-prints  so  deep, 
That  but  their  simple  names  would  start 
The  blood  back  to  each  Spanish  heart, 

And  make  the  children  weep. 


*  Panama, Carthagena,Maracaibo,andChagres, were  at  various  times  held 
by  the  buccaneers. 

28 


A  Story  of  the  Caracas  Valley. 

E'en  to  this  day,  their  many  crimes 
The  peasants  sing  in  drowsy  rhymes — 

On  mountain,  or  on  plain  ; 
And  as  they  sing,  the  plaintive  song 
Tells  many  a  deed  of  guilt  and  wrong — 

Each  has  a  doleful  strain  ! 


One  glorious  morn,  it  so  befell, 

I  heard  the  tale  which  I  shall  tell, 

At  that  Posada  dark  and  grey 

Which  stands  upon  the  mountain  way, 

Between  Caracas  and  the  sea  ; 

So  grim — so  dark — it  seem'd  to  me 

Fit  place  for  deed  of  guilt  or  sin — 

Tho'  peaceful  peasants  dwelt  therein. 

At  midnight  we,  (my  friends  and  I,) 
Beneath  a  tranquil  tropic  sky, 
Bestrode  our  mules  and  onward  rode, 
Behind  the  guide  who  swiftly  strode 
Up  the  dark  mountain  side  ;  while  we 
With  many  a  jest  and  repartee — 
With  jingling  swords,  and  spurs,  and  bits — 
Made  trial  of  our  youthful  wits. 
Ah !  we  were  gay,  for  we  were  young 
And  care  had  never  on  us  flung — 
But,  to  my  tale  :  the  purple  sky 
Was  thick  o'erlaid  with  burning  stars, 
And  oft  the  breeze  that  murmur'd  by, 
29 


A    Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

Brought  dreamy  tones  from  soft  guitars, 
Until  we  sank  in  silence  deep. 
It  was  a  night  for  thought  not  sleep — 
It  was  a  night  for  song  and  love — 
The  burning  planets  shone  above — 
The  Southern  Cross  was  all  ablaze — 
'Tis  long  since  it  then  met  my  gaze ! — 
Above  us,  whisp'ring  in  the  breeze, 
Were  many  strange,  gigantic  trees, 
And  in  their  shadow,  deep  and  dark, 
Slept  many  a  pile  of  mould'ring  bones  ; 
For  tales  of  murder  fell  and  stark, 
Are  told  by  monumental  stones 
Flung  by  the  passer's  hand,  until 
The  place  grows  to  a  little  hill. 
Up  through  the  shade  we  rode,  nor  spoke, 
Till  suddenly  the  morning  broke. 
Beneath  we  saw  in  purple  shade 
The  mighty  sea  ;  above  display'd, 
A  thousand  gorgeous  hues  which  met 
In  tints  that  I  remember  yet ; 
But  which  I  may  not  paint,  my  skill, 
Alas  !  would  but  depict  it  ill — 
E'en  Claude  has  never  given  hints 
On  canvas  of  such  splendid  tints  ! 
The  mountains,  which  ere  dawn  of  day 
I'd  liken'd  unto  friars  grey — 
Gigantic  friars  clad  in  grey — 
Stood  now  like  kings,  wrapp'd  in  the  fold 
30 


A  Story  of  the  Caracas  Valley. 

Of  gorgeous  clouds  around  them  roll'd — 
Their  lofty  heads  all  crown'd  with  gold  ; 
And  many  a  painted  bird  went  by 
Strange  to  my  unaccustom'd  eye — 
Their  plumage  mimicking  the  sky. 
O'er  many  a  league,  and  many  a  mile — 
Crag — pinnacle — and  lone  defile — 
All  Nature  woke  ! — woke  with  a  smile — 
As  tho'  the  morning's  golden  gleam 
Had  broken  some  enchanting  dream, 
But  left  its  soft  impression  still, 
On  lofty  peak  and  dancing  rill. 
With  many  a  halt  and  many  a  call, 
At  last  we  saw  the  rugged  wall, 
And  gaz'd  upon  the  ruin'd  gate 
Which  even  then  look'd  desolate, 
For  that  Posada  so  forlorn 
Seem'd  sad  e'en  on  so  gay  a  morn ! 
The  heavy  gate  at  length  unbarr'd, 
We  rode  within  the  busy  yard, 
Well  scatter'd  o'er  with  many  a  pack  ; 
For  on  that  wild,  romantic  track, 
The  long  and  heavy-laden  trains 
Toil  seaward  from  the  valley's  plains. 
And  often  on  its  silence  swells 
The  distant  tinkle  of  the  bells, 
While  muleteers'  shrill,  angry  cries 
From  the  dim  road  before  you  rise  ; 
And  such  were  group'd  in  circles  round 


A   Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

Playing  at  monte  on  the  ground  ; 

Each  swarthy  face  that  met  my  eye 

To  thought  of  honesty  gave  lie. 

In  each  fierce  orb  there  was  a  spark 

That  few  would  care  to  see  by  dark — 

And  many  a  sash  I  saw  gleam  thro' 

The  keen  cuchillo  into  view. 

Within  ;  the  place  was  rude  enough — 

The  walls  of  clay — in  color  buff — 

A  pictur'd  saint — a  cross  or  so — 

A  hammock  swinging  to  and  fro — 

A  gittern  by  the  window  laid 

Whereon  the  morning  breezes  play'd, 

And  its  low  tones  and  broken  parts 

Seem'd  like  some  thoughtless  minstrel's  arts — 

A  rugged  table  in  the  floor — 

Ran  thro'  this  homely  comedor. 

Here,  weary  as  you  well  may  think, 

An  hour  or  so  we  made  abode, 

To  give  our  mules  both  food  and  drink, 

Before  we  took  again  the  road  ; 

And  honestly,  our  own  repast 

Was  that  of  monks  from  lenten  fast. 

The  meal  once  o'er ;  our  stores  replac'd  ; 

We  gather'd  where  the  window  fac'd 

Upon  the  vale,  and  gaz'd  below 

Where  mists  from  a  mad  torrent's  flow 

Were  dimly  waving  to  and  fro. 

Meanwhile,  the  old  guitar  replied 

32 


A   Story  of  the  Caracas   Valley. 

To  the  swift  fingers  of  our  guide  : 

His  voice  was  deep,  and  rich,  and  strong, 

And  he  himself  a  child  of  song. 

At  first  the  music's  liquid  flow 

Was  soft  and  plaintive — rich  and  low  ; 

The  murmur  of  a  fountain's  stream 

Where  sleeping  water-lilies  dream  ; 

Or,  like  the  breathing  of  love-vows 

Beneath  the  shade  of  orange-boughs  ; 

And  then  more  stirring  grew  his  song — 

A  strain  which  swept  the  blood  along ! 

And  as  he  sang,  his  eyes  so  sad — 

Which  lately  wore  the  look  of  pain, 

Danc'd  with  a  gleam  both  proud  and  glad, 

Awaken'd  by  his  fervid  strain — 

His  face  now  flush'd  and  now  grew  pale — 

The  song  he  sang,  was  this,  my  tale. 

A  fort  above  Laguayra  stands, 
Which  all  the  town  below  commands. 
The  damp  moss  clings  upon  its  walls — 
The  rotting  drawbridge  slowly  falls — 
Its  dreary  silentness  appalls ! 
The  iron-bars  are  thick  with  rust 
And  slowly  moulder  into  dust ; 
The  roofless  turrets  show  the  sky, 
The  moats  below  are  bare  and  dry — 
No  captain  issues  proud  behest — 
The  guard-room  echoes  to  no  jest ; 

33 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

As  I  have  said,  within  those  walls 
The  very  silentness  appalls  ! 
In  other  days  it  was  not  so — 
The  Spanish  banner,  long  ago, 
Above  the  turrets  tall  did  flow. 
And  many  a  gallant  soldier  there 
With  musket  or  with  gleaming  spear, 
Pac'd  on  the  battlements  that  then 
Were  throng'd  with  tall  and  proper  men. 
But  this  was  many  a  year  ago — 
A  long  shot  back  for  mem'ry's  bow ! 
The  Governor  here  made  his  home 
Beneath  the  great  hall's  gilded  dome. 
And  here  his  lady-wife  he  brought 

From  Spain,  across  the  sea ; 
And  sumptuous  festival  was  made, 
Where  now  the  tangled  ivy's  shade 

Is  hanging  drearily. 
The  lady  was  both  fair  and  young — 
Fair  as  a  poet  ever  sung  ; 
And  well  they  lov'd  ;  so  it  is  told  ; — 
Had  plighted  troth  in  days  gone  by, 
Ere  he  had  won  his  spurs  of  gold, 

Or,  gain'd  his  station  high. 
And  often  from  the  martial  keep 
They'd  sail  together  on  the  deep  ; 
Or,  wander  many  a  weary  mile 
In  lonely  valley,  or  defile. 


34 


A   Story  of  the  Caracas   Valley, 

Well ;  once  upon  this  road,  a  pair, 
A  lady  and  a  cavalier, 

Were  riding  side  by  side. 
And  she  was  young  and  "  passing  fair," 
With  crimson  lips  and  ebon  hair — 

She  was  the  gallant's  bride ! 
And  he  was  cast  in  manly  mould, 
His  port  was  high,  and  free,  and  bold — 

Fitting  a  cavalier ! 
But  now  bent  reverently  low 
His  crest's  unsullied  plume  of  snow 

Play'd  'mid  the  lady's  hair. 

This  knight  with  orders  on  his  breast, 
The  Governor,  as  you  have  guess' d — 
The  lady  was  his  wife,  and  they, 
Alone  were  on  the  road  that  day ; — 
Their  horses  moving  at  a  walk, 
And  they  engaged  in  earnest  talk, 

Low  words  and  sweet  they  spoke ; 
The  lady  smil'd,  and  blush'd,  and  then, 
Smiling  and  blushing,  spoke  again  ; 

When  sleeping  echo  woke — 
Woke  with  the  shouts  of  a  wild  band 
Who  urg'd  with  spur  and  heavy  hand 

Their  steeds  along  the  way. 

Gave  but  one  look  the  cavalier — 
Murmur'd  a  vow  the  lady  fair — 
His  right  arm  is  around  her  thrown 
35 


A   Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

Her  form  close-gather'd  to  his  own ; 
While  his  brave  steed,  white  as  the  snow, 
Darts  like  an  arrow  from  the  bow  ; 
His  hoofs  fall  fast  as  tempest  rain 
Spurning  the  road  that  rings  again. 
Onward  the  race  ! — now  fainter  sounds 
The  yell  and  whoop  ;  but  still  like  hounds 
The  pirate-band  behind  him  rush 
Breaking  the  mountains  solemn  hush. 
On  speeds  he  now — his  steed  so  white 
Far  in  advance,  proclaims  his  flight ; 

God  speed  him  and  his  bride ! 
But  ah  !  that  chasm's  fearful  gape 
Seems  to  forbid  hope  of  escape, 

He  cannot  turn  aside. 

He  bends  his  head  ;  is  it  in  pray'r? 
Is  it  to  shed  a  bitter  tear? 

Or  utter  craven  vow  ? 
No  ;  'tis  to  gaze  into  those  eyes 
Which  are  to  him  love-litten  skies — 

To  kiss  his  lady's  brow. 
And  must  he  on?  full  well  he  knew 
That  none  were  spar'd  by  that  wild  crew- 

Never  a  lady  fair. 
And  now  a  shout,  a  fierce  halloo, 
Told  that  they  were  again  in  view — 
Close  to  his  ear  a  bullet  sings, 
And  then  the  distant  carbine  rings. 
36 


A   Story  of  the  Caracas  Valley. 

Why  pales  the  cavalier? 
And  why  does  he  now  set  his  teeth 
And  draw  his  dagger  from  its  sheath  ? 
He  breasts  his  charger  at  the  leap — 
He  pricketh  him  full  sharp  and  deep  : 
He  leaps,  and  then  with  heaving  flank 
Gains  footing  on  the  other  bank  : 
A  moment — 'mid  the  pass's  gloom, 
Vanish  both  veil  and  dancing  plume — 
It  seems  a  dream.     No !  there  is  proof, 
The  clatter  of  a  flying  hoof, 
And  too,  the  lady's  steed  remains, 
With  empty  seat,  and  flying  reins ; 
And  then  is  borne  to  that  wild  rout, 
A  long  and  proud  triumphant  shout. 
And  he  who  led  the  pirate  band, 
Urg'd  on  his  horse,  with  spur  and  hand  ; 
The  long  locks  drifted  from  his  brow, 
Like  midnight  waves  from  storm-vexed  prow  ; 
And  darkly  flash'd  his  eyes  of  jet 
Beneath  the  brows  which  almost  met. 
Stern  was  his  face ;  but  war  and  crime, 
— For  he  had  sinn'd  in  many  a  clime — 
Had  plough'd  it  deeper  far  than  time. 
He  was  their  chief:  will  he  draw  rein? 
Will  he  the  yawning  rift  refrain? 
And  with  his  halting  band  remain? 
He  rais'd  up  in  his  stirrups,  high, 
Better  the  chasm  to  descry, 

37 


A   Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

And  measure  with  his  hawk-like  eye, 
While  his  dark  steed  begrim'd  with  toil, 
Tried  madly,  vainly,  to  recoil ! 
A  mutter'd  curse — a  sabre  goad — 
Full  at  the  leap  the  robber  rode  : 
Great  God !  his  horse  near  dead  and  spent, 
Scarce  halfway  o'er  the  chasm  went. 
That  fearful  rush,  and  daring  bound, 
Was  follow'd  by  a  crashing  sound — 

A  sudden,  awful  knell ! 
For  down,  more  than  a  thousand  feet, 
Where  mist  and  mountain  torrent  meet, 
That  reckless  rider  fell. 

His  band  drew  up  : — they  could  not  speak, 
For  long,  and  loud  his  charger's  shriek 
Was  heard  in  an  unearthly  scream, 
Above  that  roaring  mountain  stream — 
Like  fancied  sound  in  fever'd  dream, 
When  the  sick  brain  with  crazy  skill 
Weaves  fantasies  of  woe  and  ill. 
Some  said  :  no  steed  gave  forth  that  yell, 
And  hinted  solemnly  of — hell ! 
And  others  said,  that  from  his  vest 
A  miniature  with  haughty  crest 
And  features  like  the  lady's  'pressed, 

Fell  on  the  rugged  bank  : 
But  who  he  was,  none  knew  or  tell ; 


A   Story  of  the  Caracas   Valley. 

They  simply  point  out  where  he  fell 

When  horse  and  horseman  sank. 
Like  Ravenswood  he  left  no  trace — 
Tradition  only  points  the  place. 

Rude  is  my  hand,  and  rude  my  lay — 
Rude  as  the  Inn,  time-worn  and  grey, 
Where  resting,  on  the  mountain-way, 
I  heard  the  tale  which  I  have  tried 
To  tell  to  thee ;  and  saw  the  wide 
Deep  rift — ten  yards  from  side  to  side — 
Great  God !  it  was  a  fearful  ride 
The  robber  took  that  day. 

39 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 


THREE  SUMMER  STUDIES. 


I. 

'  I  "HE  cock  hath  crow'd.     I  hear  the  doors  unbarr'd  ; 

1        Down  to  the  moss-grown  porch  my  way  I  take, 
And  hear,  beside  the  well  within  the  yard, 

Full  many  an  ancient,  quacking,  splashing  drake, 
And  gabbling  goose,  and  noisy  brood-hen — all 
Responding  to  yon  strutting  gobbler's  call. 

The  dew  is  thick  upon  the  velvet  grass — 
The  porch-rails  hold  it  in  translucent  drops, 

And  as  the  cattle  from  th'  enclosure  pass, 
Each  one,  alternate,  slowly  halts  and  crops 

The  tall,  green  spears,  with  all  their  dewy  load, 

Which  grow  beside  the  well-known  pasture-road. 

A  lustrous  polish  is  on  all  the  leaves — 

The  birds  flit  in  and  out  with  varied  notes — 

The  noisy  swallows  twitter  'neath  the  eaves — 
A  partridge-whistle  thro'  the  garden  floats, 

While  yonder  gaudy  peacock  harshly  cries, 

As  red  and  gold  flush  all  the  eastern  skies. 

4o 


Three  Summer  Studies. 

Up  comes  the  sun  :  thro'  the  dense  leaves  a  spot 
Of  splendid  light  drinks  up  the  dew  ;  the  breeze 

Which  late  made  leafy  music  dies  ;  the  day  grows  hot, 
And  slumbrous  sounds  come  from  marauding  bees  : 

The  burnish'd  river  like  a  sword-blade  shines, 

Save  where  'tis  shadow'd  by  the  solemn  pines. 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 


II. 

OVER  the  farm  is  brooding  silence  now — 
No  reaper's  song —  no  raven's  clangor  harsh — 
No  bleat  of  sheep — no  distant  low  of  cow — 

No  croak  of  frogs  within  the  spreading  marsh — 
No  bragging  cock  from  litter'd  farm-yard  crows, 
The  scene  is  steep'd  in  silence  and  repose. 

A  trembling  haze  hangs  over  all  the  fields — 

The  panting  cattle  in  the  river  stand 
Seeking  the  coolness  which  its  wave  scarce  yields. 

It  seems  a  Sabbath  thro'  the  drowsy  land  : 
So  hush'd  is  all  beneath  the  Summer's  spell, 
I  pause  and  listen  for  some  faint  church  bell. 

The  leaves  are  motionless — the  song-bird's  mute — 
The  very  air  seems  somnolent  and  sick  : 

The  spreading  branches  with  o'er-ripen'd  fruit 
Show  in  the  sunshine  all  their  clusters  thick, 

While  now  and  then  a  mellow  apple  falls 

With  a  dull  sound  within  the  orchard's  walls. 

The  sky  has  but  one  solitary  cloud, 

Like  a  dark  island  in  a  sea  of  light ; 
The  parching  furrows  'twixt  the  corn-rows  plough'd 

Seem  fairly  dancing  in  my  dazzled  sight> 
While  over  yonder  road  a  dusty  haze 
Grows  reddish  purple  in  the  sultry  blaze. 

42 


Three  Summer  Studies. 


III. 


*  HAT  solitary  cloud  grows  dark  and  wide, 
1        While  distant  thunder  rumbles  in  the  air, 
A  fitful  ripple  breaks  the  river's  tide  — 

The  lazy  cattle  are  no  longer  there, 
But  homeward  come  in  long  procession  slow, 
With  many  a  bleat  and  many  a  plaintive  low. 

Darker  and  wider-spreading  o'er  the  west 
Advancing  clouds,  each  in  fantastic  form, 

And  mirror'd  turrets  on  the  river's  breast 
Tell  in  advance  the  coming  of  a  storm  — 

Closer  and  brighter  glares  the  lightning's  flash 

And  louder,  nearer,  sounds  the  thunder's  crash. 

The  air  of  evening  is  intensely  hot, 

The  breeze  feels  heated  as  it  fans  my  brows  — 

Now  sullen  rain-drops  patter  down  like  shot  — 
Strike  in  the  grass,  or  rattle  'mid  the  boughs. 

A  sultry  lull  :  and  then  a  gust  again, 

And  now  I  see  the  thick-advancing  rain. 

It  fairly  hisses  as  it  comes  along, 

And  where  it  strikes  bounds  up  again  in  spray 
As  if  'twere  dancing  to  the  fitful  song 

Made  by  the  trees,  which  twist  themselves  and  sway 
In  contest  with  the  wind  which  rises  fast, 
Until  the  breeze  becomes  a  furious  blast. 

43 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

And  now,  the  sudden,  fitful  storm  has  fled, 
The  clouds  lie  pil'd  up  in  the  splendid  west, 

In  massive  shadow  tipp'd  with  purplish  red, 
Crimson  or  gold.     The  scene  is  one  of  rest ; 

And  on  the  bosom  of  yon  still  lagoon 

I  see  the  crescent  of  the  pallid  moon, 

44 


CBAWFORD'S  STATUE  OF  WASHINGTON, 
in  the  Capitol  Square,  Richmond,  Virginia. 


TTie  Washington  Memorial  Ode. 


THE  WASHINGTON  MEMORIAL  ODE. 

/"CERTAIN  events,  like  architects,  build  up 

^— '     Viewless  cathedrals,  in  whose  aisles  the  cup 

Of  some  impressive  sacrament  is  kist — 

Where  thankful  nations  taste  the  Eucharist, 

Pressed  to  their  lips  by  some  heroic  Past 

Enthroned  like  Pontiff  in  the  temple  vast — 

Where  incense  rises  t'wards  the  dome  sublime 

From  golden  censers  in  the  hands  of  Time — 

Where  through  the  smoke  some  sculptured  saint  appears 

Crowned  with  the  glories  of  historic  years  ; 

Before  whose  shrine  whole  races  tell  their  beads — 

From  whose  pale  front  each  sordid  thought  recedes, 

Gliding  away  like  white  and  stealthy  ghost, 

As  Memory  rears  it's  consecrated  Host, 

As  blood  and  body  of  a  sacred  name 

Make  the  last  supper  of  some  deathless  fame. 

This  the  event !  Here  springs  the  temple  grand, 
Whose  mighty  arches  take  in  all  the  land ! 
Its  twilight  aisles  stretch  far  away  and  reach 
'Mid  lights  and  shadows  which  defy  my  speech : 
And  near  its  portal  which  Morn  opened  wide — 
Grey  Janitor ! — to  let  in  all  this  tide 
Of  prayerful  men,  most  solemnly  there  stands 

45 


A    Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves, 

One  recollection,  which,  for  pious  hands 

Is  ready  like  the  Minster's  sculptured  vase, 

With  holy  water  for  each  reverent  face. 

And  mystic  columns,  which  my  fancy  views, 

Glow  in  a  thousand  soft,  subduing  hues 

Flung  through  the  stained  windows  of  the  Past  in  gloom, 

Of  royal  purple  o'er  our  warrior's  tomb. 


Oh,  proud  old  Commonwealth  !    thy  sacred  name 
Makes  frequent  music  on  the  lips  of  Fame! 
And  as  the  nation,  in  it's  onward  march, 
Thunders  beneath  the  Union's  mighty  arch, 
Thine  the  bold  front  which  every  patriot  sees 
The  stateliest  figure  on  its  massive  frieze. 
Oh,  proud  old  State !   well  may  thy  form  be  grand, 
'Twas  thine  to  give  a  Savior  to  the  land. 
For,  in  the  past,  when  upward  rose  the  cry, 
"  Save  or  we  perish  !"  thine  'twas  to  supply 
The  master-spirit  of  the  storm  whose  will 
Said  to  the  billows  in  their  wrath  :  "  Be  still !" 
And  though  a  great  calm  followed,  yet  the  age 
In  which  he  saw  that  mad  tornado  rage 
Made  in  its  cares  and  wild  tempestuous  strife 
One  solemn  Passion  of  his  noble  life. 

This  day,  then,  Countrymen  of  all  the  year, 
We  well  may  claim  to  be  without  a  peer  : 
Amid  the  rest — impalpable  and  vast — 

46 


The    Washington  Memorial  Ode. 

It  stands  a  Cheops  looming  through  the  past, 

Close  to  the  rushing,  patriotic  Nile 

Which  here  o'erflows  our  hearts  to  make  them  smile 

With  a  rich  harvest  of  devoted  zeal, 

Men  of  Virginia,  for  the  Common-weal! 

And  to  our  Bethlehem  ye  who  come  to-day — 
Ye  who  compose  this  multitude's  array — 
Ye  who  are  here  from  mighty  Northern  marts 
With  frankincense  and  myrrh  within  your  hearts — 
Ye  who  are  here  from  the  gigantic  West, 
The  offspring  nurtured  at  Virginia's  breast, 
Which  in  development  by  magic  seems 
Straight  to  embody  all  that  Progress  dreams — 
Ye  who  are  here  from  summer-wedded  lands — 
From  Carolina's  woods  to  Tampa's  sands, 
From  Florida  to  Texas  broad  and  free 
Where  spreads  the  prairie,  like  a  dark,  green  sea — 
Ye  whose  bold  fathers  from  Virginia  went 
In  wilds  to  pitch  brave  enterprise's  tent, 
Spreading  our  faith  and  social  system  wide, 
By  which  we  stand  peculiarly  allied ! — 
Ye  Southern  men,  whose  work  is  but  begun, 
Whose  course  is  on  t'ward  regions  of  the  sun, 
Whose  brave  battalions  moved  to  tropic  sods 
Solemn  and  certain  as  though  marching  gods 
Were  ordered  in  their  circumstance  and  state 
Beneath  the  banner  of  resistless  Fate  ! 


47 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

% 
Ye  have  been  welcomed,  Countrymen,  by  him* 

Beside  whose  speech  my  rhetoric  grows  dim — 

Whose   thoughts  are   flint  and  steel — whose  words  are 

flame, 

For  they  all  stir  us  like  some  hero's  name  : 
But  once  again  the  Commonwealth  extends 
Her  open  hand  in  welcome  to  her  friends  ; 
Come  ye  from  North,  or  South,  or  West,  or  East, 
No  bull's  head  enters  at  Virginia's  feast. 
And  ye  who've  journeyed  hither  from  afar, 
Know  that  fair  Freedom's  liquid  morning  star 
Still  sheds  it's  glories  in  a  thousand  beams, 
Gilding  our  forests,  fountains,  mountains,  streams, 
With  light  as  luminous  as  on  that  morn 
When  the  Messiah  of  the  land  was  born. 
Then  as  we  here  partake  the  mystic  rites 
To  which  his  memory  like  a  priest  invites  ; 
Kneeling  beside  the  altars  of  this  day, 
Let  every  heart  subdued  one  moment  pray, 

***** 
That  He  who  lit  our  morning  star's  pure  light 
Will  never  blot  it  from  the  nation's  sight; 
That  He  will  banish  those  portentous  clouds 
Which  from  so  many  its  effulgence  shrouds — 
Which  none  will  deem  me  Hamlet-mad  when  I 
Say  hang  like  banners  on  the  darkened  sky, 
Suggesting  perils  in  their  warlike  shape, 
Which  Heavenly  Father  grant  that  we  escape ! 


*  Governor  Wise.  48 


The  Washington  Memorial  Ode. 

*  *  *  *  * 

Why  touch  upon  these  topics,  do  you  ask? 
Why  blend  these  themes  with  my  allotted  task  ? 
My  answer's  brief,  'tis,  Citizens,  because 
I  see  fierce  warfare  made  upon  the  Laws. 
A  people's  poets  are  that  people's  seers, 
The  prophet's  faculty,  in  part,  is  theirs, 
And  thus  'tis  fit  that  from  this  statue's  base, 
Beneath  great  Washington's  majestic  face, 
That  I  should  point  the  dangers  which  menace 
Our  social  temple's  symmetry  and  grace. 

***»<* 
But  here  I  pause,  for  happier  omens  look, 
And  playing  Flamen  turn  to  Nature's  book  : 
Where  late  rich  Autumn  sat  on  golden  throne, 
A  stern  usurper  makes  the  crown  his  own  ; 
The  courtier  woodlands,  robbed  of  all  their  state, 
Stripped  of  their  pomp,  look  grim  and  desolate ; 
Reluctant  conscripts,  clad  in  icy  mail, 
Their  captive  pleadings  rise  on  every  gale. 
Now  mighty  oaks  stand  like  bereaved  Lears  ; 
Pennons  are  furled  on  all  the  sedgy  spears 
Where  the  sad  river  glides  between  its  banks, 
Like  beaten  general  twixt  his  pompless  ranks ; 
And  the  earth's  bosom,  clad  in  armor  now, 
Bids  stern  defiance  to  the  iron  plough, 
While  o'er  the  fields  so  desolate  and  damp 
Invading  Winter  spreads  his  hostile  camp.* 

•The  statue  was  unveiled  in  a  snow-storm. 
4  49 


A   Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

And  as  he  shakes  his  helmet's  snowy  plume 
The  landscape  saddens  into  deeper  gloom. 
But  yet  ere  many  moons  have  flung  to  lea, 
To  begging  billows  of  the  hungry  sea, 
Their  generous  gold — like  oriental  queens — 
A  change  will  pass  o'er  all  these  wintry  scenes  ; 
There'll  come  the  coronation  of  glad  Spring, 
Grander  than  any  made  for  bride  of  king. 


Earth's  hodden  grey  will  change  to  livelier  hues 
Enriched  with  pearl  drops  of  the  limpid  dews  ; 
Plenty  will  stand  with  her  large  tranquil  eyes 
To  see  her  treasures  o'er  the  landscape  rise. 
Thus  may  the  lover  of  his  country  hope 
To  see  again  the  Nation's  spring-tide  ope, 
And  freedom's  harvest  turn  to  ripened  gold, 
So  that  our  world  may  give  unto  the  old 
Of  its  great  opulence,  as  Joseph  gave 
Bread  to  his  brothers  when  they  came  to  crave. 

But  from  his  name  I've  paused  too  long  you  think  ? 
Yet  he  who  stands  beside  Niagra's  brink 
Breaketh  not  forth  at  once  of  its  grand  strife ; 
'Tis  thus  I  stand  subdued  by  his  great  life — 

***** 

And  with  his  name  a  host  of  others  rise, 
Climbing  like  planets,  Fame's  eternal  skies : 
Great  names,  my  Brothers !  with  such  deeds  allied 

5° 


The  Washington  Memorial  Ode. 

That  all  Virginians  glow  with  filial  pride — 
That  here  the  multitude  shall  daily  pace 
Around  this  statue's  hero-circled  base, 
Thinking  on  those  who,  though  long  sunk  in  sleep, 
Still  round  our  camp  the  guard  of  sentries  keep — 
Who  when  a  foe  encroaches  on  our  line, 
Prompt  the  stern  challenge  for  the  countersign — 
Who  with  proud  memories  feed  our  bright  watch-fire 
Which  ne'er  has  faded,  never  will  expire ; 
Grand  benedictions,  they  in  bronze  will  stand 
To  guard  and  consecrate  our  native  land  ! 
Great  names  are  theirs !  But  his,  like  battle  song, 
In  quicker  current  sends  our  blood  along ; 
For  at  its  music  hearts  throb  quick  and  large, 
Like  those  of  horsemen  thundering  in  the  charge. 
God's  own  Knight-Errant !     There  his  figure  stands  ! 
Our  souls  are  full — our  bonnets  in  our  hands ! 

When  the  fierce  torrent — lava-like — of  bronze 
To  mould  this  statue  burst  it  furnace  bonds, 
When  it  out-thundered  in  its  liquid  flow, 
With  splendid  flame  and  scintillating  glow, 
'Twas  in  its  wild  tumultuous  throb  and  storm 
Type  of  the  age  which  moulded  into  form 
The  god-like  character  of  him  sublime, 
Whose  name  is  reared  a  statue  for  all  time 
In  the  great  minster  of  the  whole  world's  heart. 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

I've  called  his  name  a  statue.     Stern  and  vast 

It  rests  enthroned  upon  the  mighty  past : 

Fit  plinth  for  him  whose  image  in  the  mind 

Looms  up  as  that  of  one  by  God  designed ! 

Fit  plinth  in  sooth !  the  mighty  past  for  him 

Whose  simple  name  is  Glory's  synonyme ! 

E'en  Fancy's  self,  in  her  enchanted  sleep, 

Can  dream  no  future  which  may  cease  to  keep 

His  name  in  guard,  like  sentinel  and  cry 

From  Time's  great  bastions  :  "  It  shall  never  die." 


His  simple  name  a  statue?     Yes,  and  grand 

'Tis  reared  in  this  and  every  other  land. 

Around  its  base  a  group  more  noble  stands 

Than  e'er  was  carved  by  human  sculptor's  hands, 

E'en  though  each  form,  like  that  of  old  should  flush 

With  vivid  beauty's  animating  blush — 

Though  dusky  bronze,  or  pallid  stone  should  thrill 

With  sudden  life  at  some  Pygmalion's  will — 

For  these  great  figures,  with  his  own  enshrined, 

Are  seen,  my  Countrymen,  by  men,  though  blind. 

There  Valor  fronts  us  with  her  storied  shield, 
Brave  in  devices  won  on  many  a  field ; 
A  splendid  wreath  snatched  from  the  carnage  grim 
Is  twined  around  that  buckler's  burnished  rim, 
And  as  we  gaze,  the  brazen  trumpets  blare 
With  shrill  vibration  shakes  the  frightened  air — 
The  roll  of  musketry — the  clash  of  steel — 

5* 


The  Washington  Memorial  Ode. 

The  clang  of  hoofs  as  charging  squadrons  wheel — 
The  hoarse  command — the  imprecative  cry — 
Swell  loud  and  long,  while  Fancy's  eager  eye 
Sees  the  stern  van  move  on  with  crimson  strides 
Where  Freedom's  warrior  on  his  war-horse  rides, 
Sees  the  great  cannon  flash  out  red  and  fast 
Through  battle  mists  which  canopy  the  past. 

And  solemn-fronted  Truth  with  earnest  eyes, 
Stands  there  serenely  beautiful  and  wise; 
Her  stately  form  in  undisturbed  repose, 
Rests  by  her  well,  where  limpid  crystal  flows 
While  on  her  face,  which  can  severely  frown, 
A  smile  is  breaking  as  she  gazes  down ; 
For  clearly  marked  upon  that  tranquil  wave 
Slumbers  his  image  in  a  picture  brave, 
And  leaning  on  the  fountain's  coping  stone, 
She  scarce  can  tell  his  shadow  from  her  own. 

And  Wisdom,  with  her  meditative  gaze, 
Beside  its  base  her  mighty  chart  displays  ; 
There  with  her  solemn  and  impressive  hand 
Writes  as  she  stoops — as  Christ  wrote  on  the  sand- 
But  what  she  traces  all  may  read — 'tis  this  : 
An  invocation  by  our  dreams  of  bliss — 
By  hopes  to  do  and  by  our  great  deeds  done, 
The  war  of  sections  thro'  all  time  to  shun — 
She  writes  the  words  which  almost  seem  divine, 
"  Our  deadliest  foe  's  a  geographic  line !" 
And  Justice,  with  her  face  severely  grand, 

S3 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

Stands  'mid  the  group,  her  balances  in  hand  : 
Faultless  in  judging  trivial  deeds,  or  great, 
Unmoved  by  love  and  unimpressed  by  hate. 
Beside  her  gleams  undimmed  by  spot,  or  rust, 
A  mighty  blade  to  strike  when  strike  she  must ; 
And  this  bright  falchion  like  that  which  defends 
The  guarded  gate  where  earth  in  Eden  ends, 
With  flame  terrific  and  with  ponderous  sway 
Frightens  each  Brennus  from  her  scales  away. 

And  there  we  see  pale,  pleading  Mercy  bow, 
A  troubled  shadow  on  her  saintly  brow  ; 
Her  fringed  lashes  tremulous  with  tears, 
Which  glitter  still  through  all  the  change  of  years 
And  as  we  see  those  tear  drops  slowly  rise, 
Giving  new  softness  to  her  tender  eyes, 
Away  the  mists  which  o'er  the  dark  past  drift 
Are  rent  and  scattered,  while  the  sudden  rift 
Shows,  like  some  distant  headland  vast  and  dim 
Seen  through  the  tempest,  the  great  soul  of  him 
Who  guarding  against  the  native  traitor,  could 
Turn  from  her  pleadings  for  his  country's  good. 

And  Honor  last  completes  the  stately  group, 
With  eye  like  eagle's  in  descending  swoop, 
Fronted  like  goddess  beautiful  and  proud 
When  sailing  on  the  "  lazy-pacing  cloud  " : 
Prouder  her  port  than  that  of  all  the  rest, 
With  radiant  forehead  and  translucent  breast, 
She  needs  no  gesture  of  supreme  command 

54 


TTie  Washington  Memorial  Ode. 

For  us  to  know  her  foremost  of  the  band  : 

They  were  his  counsellors,  she  as  the  mind 

By  which  their  promptings  were  in  deeds  combined- 

In  deeds  which  Fame,  like  fasces  bears  before 

The  noblest  consul  that  earth  ever  bore. 


Why  are  we  here  ?    It  were  a  bitter  shame 
To  pay  this  homage  to  a  hero's  name, 
And  yet  forget  the  principles  which  gave 
His  true  defiance  to  oblivion's  wave  ! 
Aye  !   Sirs,  remember  when  the  day  is  spent, 
In  Freedom's  camp  our  soldier  pitched  his  tent ! 
Maintain  your  own — respect  your  brother's  right- 
Thus  will  you  praise  Jehovah's  belted  Knight. 

Are  we  Pompeians  gathered  here  to-day, 
Gazing  upon  our  last  superb  display? 
Crowning  the  hours  with  many  a  festal  wreath, 
While  red  Vesuvius  bubbles  underneath? 
Oh  !  no,  my  Countrymen  !    This  cloud  must  be 
The  smoke  of  incense  floating  o'er  the  free ! 
No  lava-flood  can  e'er  o'erwhelm  this  land, 
Held  as  'tis  holden,  in  God's  mighty  hand. 

And  when  the  garlands  of  to-day  are  pale, 
Shall  clang  of  armorers  riveting  our  mail 
Rise  in  harsh  dissonance  where  now  the  song 
In  surging  music  sweeps  the  land  along? 
No,  Brothers,  no !  The  Providence  on  high 

55 


A.  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

Stretches  above  us  like  the  arching  sky  ; 
As  o'er  the  world  that  broad  empyrean  field, 
So  o'er  the  nation  God's  protecting  shield  ! 


His  the  great  will  which  sways  the  tide  of  earth — 
His  the  great  will  which  giveth  empires  birth — 
And  this  grand  truth  through  every  age  and  clime 
Is  written  out  in  characters  sublime ; 
But  most  we  see  the  traces  of  His  hand 
In  the  great  Epic  of  our  native  land. 

This  new  world  had  its  Adam  and  he  fled — 
God's  was  the  voice  and  God's  the  mighty  tread 
Which  scared  the  red  man  from  his  Eden  bowers 
God's  the  decree  which  made  the  garden  ours  ! 
And  Eden  'twas  and  such  it  still  remains  : 
Oh,  Brothers !  shall  we  prove  a  race  of  Cains  ? 
Shall  impious  hands  be  armed  with  deadly  things, 
Because  we  bring  up  different  offerings 
Unto  our  altars  ?  To  the  Nation's  shrine 
I  take  my  gift ;  my  brother,  take  thou  thine  ! 
Again  I  ask  :  While  this  proud  bronze  remains, 
Shall  this  great  people  prove  a  race  of  Cains? 
Here  make  your  answer  at  this  statue's  base, 
Beneath  this  warrior's  calm,  majestic  face  ; 
And  here  remember  that  your  best  applause 
To  him  is  shown  in  standing  by  the  Laws  ! 
But  if  our  rights  shall  ever  be  denied, 

56 


The  Washington  Memorial  Ode. 

I  call  upon  you,  by  your  race's  pride, 
To  seek  some  "West  Augusta"  and  unfurl 
Our  banner  where  the  mountain  vapors  curl : 
Lowland  and  valley  then  will  swell  the  cry, 
He  left  us  free :  thus  will  we  live,  or  die ! 
One  other  word,  Virginia,  hear  thy  son, 
Whose  filial  service  now  is  nearly  done — 
Hear  me  old  State  !  Thou  art  supremely  blest : 
A  hero's  ashes  slumber  in  th)r breast! 
Oh,  Mother !   if  the  ashes  of  a  king 

Could  nerve  to  deeds  with  which  Fame's  trumpets  ring, 
What  glove  of  challenger  shall  make  thee  start, 
When  thy  great  son  lies  sleeping  on  thy  heart ! 

57 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 


HOW  IT  FELL  CALM  ON  SUMMER  NIGHT. 

AY  Lady's  rest  was  calm  and  deep  : 
She  had  been  gazing  at  the  moon  ; 
And  thus  it  chanced  she  fell  asleep 
One  balmy  night  in  June. 

Freebooter  winds  stole  richest  smells 
From  roses  bursting  in  the  gloom, 

And  rifled  half-blown  daffodils, 
And  lilies  of  perfume. 

These  dainty  robbers  of  the  South 

Found  "  beauty  "  sunk  in  deep  repose, 

And  seized  upon  her  crimson  mouth, 
Thinking  her  lips  a  rose. 

The  wooing  winds  made  love  full  fast — 
To  rouse  her  up  in  vain  they  tried — 

They  kist  and  kist  her,  till,  at  last, 
In  ecstasy  they  died. 
58 


A  Friend  of  Mine. 


A  FRIEND  OF  MINE. 

WE  sat  beneath  tall  waving  trees  that  flung 
Their  heavy  shadows  o'er  the  dewy  grass. 
Over  the  waters,  breaking  at  our  feet, 
Quivered  the  moon,  and  lighted  solemnly 
The  scene  before  us. 

He  with  whom  I  talked 

Was  in  the  noble  vigor  of  his  youth  : 

Tall,  much  beyond  the  standard,  and  well  knit, 

With  a  dark,  Norman  face,  from  which  the  breeze 

Flung  back  his  locks  of  ebon  darkness  which 

In  rare  luxuriance  fell  around  his  brow, 

That,  in  its  massive  beauty,  brought  me  up 

Pictures  by  ancient  masters ;  or  the  sharp 

And  perfect  features  carved  by  Grecian  hands, 

In  days  when  Gods,  in  forms  worthy  of  Gods, 

Started  from  marble  to  bewitch  the  world — 

A  brow  so  beautiful  was  his,  that  one 

Might  well  conceive  it  always  bound  with  dreams ; 

His  eyes  were  luminous  and  full  of  gleams, 

That  made  me  think  of  waves  wherein  I've  seen 

The  moon-hued  lightning  breaking  in  the  dark 

With  sudden  flashes  of  phosphoric  light : 

His  cheeks  were  bronze,  his  firm  lips  scarlet-hued. 

59 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

The  Roman's  valor,  the  Assyrian's  love 
Of  ease  and  pomp  sat  on  his  crimson  lips, 
Uneasy  rulers  on  the  self-same  throne, 
Spoiling  the  empire  of  the  soul  within  : 
Such  was  his  face. 


His  thoughts  went  forth  like  emperors,  and  all 
His  words  arrayed  themselves  around  them  like 
Imperial  guards. 

***** 

Opinions  which  I  had  been  taught  to  hold 
As  full  of  pith  and  gravity,  he  took 
As  'twere,  'twixt  thumb  and  finger  of  his  wit — 
Rubbed  off  their  gloss,  until  they  seemed  to  me, 
All,  as  he  said,  varnished  hypocrisies. 
***** 

Most  wise  for  one  so  young !  and  strangely  read 
In  books  of  quaint  philosophy — although 
His  mind's  strange  alchemy  could  find  some 
Rich  thought  hidden  in  the  basest  thing, 
Which  he  transmuted  into  golden  words, 
So  that  in  hearing  him  I  often  thought 
Upon  the  story  of  that  Saint  whose  mouth 
Was  radiant  with  the  angel's  blessed  touch, 
Which  gave  him  superhuman  eloquence  ; 
And  though  he  was  thus  gifted,  yet — ah  me ! 


60 


A  Friend  of  Mine. 

Still  earnest  with  my  theme,  I  bade  him  think 
Of  Auerbach's  cellar,  and  that  wassail  night 
Whole  centuries  ago  :  and  then  in  phrase, 
Better  than  that  which  cometh  to  me  now 
I  likened  it — the  necromancy  which 
Drew  richest  vintage  from  the  rugged  boards — 
Unto  the  spell  wherewith  he'd  bound  himself — 
The  spell  by  which  he  drew  from  simplest  things 
Conceptions  beautiful,  as  Faust  drew  wine 
From  the  rude  table ;   for  this  friend  of  mine 
Was  a  true  poet,  though  he  seldom  wrote : 
The  wealth  which  might  have  royally  endowed 
Some  noble  charity  for  coming  time 
Was  idly  wasted — pearls  dissolved  in  wine — 


Still  on  my  theme  I  hung  and  pointed  out, 

Full  eagerly,  how  Mephistopheles 

Ordered  the  gimlet  wherewith  it  was  drawn 


But  he  who  went  his  way  that  summer  night, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  those  stately  trees 
Comes  back  to  me — to  earth — ah  !  nevermore. 


He  fell  obscurely  in  the  common  ranks — 
His  keen  sword  rusted  in  it's  splendid  sheath. 
God  pardon  him  his  faults !  for  faults  he  had  ; 

61 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

But  oh !  so  blent  with  goodness,  that  the  while 
The  lip  of  every  theory  of  his 
Curved  with  a  sneer,  each  action  smiled 
With  Christian  charity. 

Like  Manfred  he  had  summoned  to  his  aid 
Forbidden  ministers — but  unlike  his — 
Of  the  earth,  earthy,  which  did  slowly  clutch 
Upon  his  lofty  faculties  until 

They  summoned  him  from  the  lone  tow'r  of  thought 
And  false  philosophy  wherein  he  dwelt. 
God  pardon  him  !  Amen. 

62 


Indolence. 


INDOLENCE.* 


I    TURN  aside ;  and,  in  the  pause,  might  start 
As  Mem'ry's  elbow  leans  upon  Time's  Chart, 
Which  shows,  alas !   how  soon  all  men  must  glide 
Over  meridians  on  life's  ocean  tide — 
Meridians  showing  how  both  youth  and  sage 
Are  sailing  northward  to  the  zone  of  age  : 
On  to  an  atmosphere  of  gloom  I  wist, 
Where  mariners  are  lost  in  melancholy  mist. 
But  gayer  thoughts,  like  spring-tide  swallows,  dart 
Through  youth's  brave  mind  and  animate  its  heart. 


But  Indolence  is  seen  a  pallid  Ruth — 
A  timid  gleaner  in  the  fields  of  youth — 
A  wretched  gath'rer  of  the  scattered  grain 
Left  by  the  reapers  who  have  swept  the  plain ; 
But  with  no  Boaz  standing  by  the  while, 
To  watch  its  figure  with  approving  smile. 

(*From  a  Poem  pronounced  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society  and  grad 
uating  classes  of  William  and  Mary  College,  July  4th,  1858.) 

63 


A    Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 


THE   JAMESTOWN  ANNIVERSARY  ODE. 


IN  those  vast  forests  dwelt  a  race  of  kings, 
Free  as  the  eagle  when  he  spreads  his  wings — 
His  wings  which  never  in  their  wild  flight  lag — 
In  mists  which  fly  the  fierce  tornado's  flag ; 
Their  flight  the  eagle's  !  and  their  name,  alas  ! 
The  eagle's  shadow  swooping  o'er  the  grass, 
Or,  as  it  fades,  it  well  may  seem  to  be 
The  shade  of  tempest  driven  o'er  the  sea. 

Fierce,  too,  this  race,  as  mountain  torrent  wild, 
With  haughty  hearts,  where  Mercy  rarely  smiled — 
All  their  traditions — histories  imbued 
With  tales  of  war  and  sanguinary  feud, 
Yet  though  they  never  couched  the  knightly  lance, 
The  glowing  songs  of  Europe's  old  romance 
Can  find  their  parallels  amid  the  race, 
Which,  on  this  spot,  met  England  face  to  face. 
And  when  they  met  the  white  man,  hand  to  hand, 
Twilight  and  sunrise  stood  upon  the  strand — 
Twilight  and  sunrise?     Saxon  sunshine  gleams 
To-day  o'er  prairies  and  those  distant  streams, 
Which  hurry  onward  through  far  Western  plains, 
Where  the  last  Indian,  for  a  season,  reigns. 

64 


The  Jamestown  Anniversary  Ode. 

Here,  the  red  CANUTE  on  this  spot,  sat  down, 
His  splendid  forehead  stormy  with  a  frown, 
To  quell,  with  the  wild  lightning  of  his  glance 
The  swift  encroachment  of  the  wave's  advance  ; 
To  meet  and  check  the  ruthless  tide  which  rose, 
Crest  after  crest  of  energetic  foes, 
While  high  and  strong'poured  on  each  cruel  wave, 
Until  they  left  his  royalty — a  grave  ; 
But,  o'er  this  wild,  tumultuous  deluge  glows 
A  vision  fair  as  Heaven  to  saint  e'er  shows  ; 
A  dove  of  mercy  o'er  the  billows  dark 
Fluttered  awhile  then  fled  within  God's  ark. 
Had  I  the  power,  I'd  reverently  describe 
That  peerless  maid — the  "  pearl  of  all  her  tribe," 
As  evening  fair,  when  coming  night  and  day 
Contend  together  which  shall  wield  its  sway. 
But,  here  abashed,  my  paltry  fancy  stays  ; 
For  her,  too  humble  its  most  stately  lays. 
A  shade  of  twilight's  softest,  sweetest  gloom — 
The  dusk  of  morning — found  a  splendid  tomb 
In  England's  glare  ;  so  strange,  so  vast,  so  bright, 
The  dusk  of  morning  burst  in  splendid  light, 
Which  falleth  through  the  Past's  cathedral  aisles, 
Till  sculptured  Mercy  like  a  seraph  smiles. 
And  though  Fame's  grand  and  consecrated  fane 
No  kingly  statue  may,  in  time,  retain, 
Her  name  shall  linger,  nor  with  age  grow  faint ; 
Its  simple  sound — the  image  of  a  saint. 
5  65 


A.  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

Sad  is  the  story  of  that  maiden's  race, 
Long  driven  from  each  legendary  place. 
All  their  expansive  hunting-grounds  are  now 
Torn  by  the  iron  of  the  Saxon's  plough, 
Which  turns  up  skulls  and  arrow-heads  and  bones — 
Their  places  nameless  and  unmarked  by  stones. 
Now  freighted  vessels  toil  along  the  view, 
Where  once  was  seen  the  Indian's  bark  canoe ; 
And  to  the  woods  the  shrill  escaping  steam 
Proclaims  our  triumph  in  discordant  scream. 
Where  rose  the  wigwam  in  its  sylvan  shade, 
Where  the  bold  hunter  in  his  freedom  strayed, 
And  met  his  foe  or  chased  the  bounding  stag, 
The  lazy  horses  at  the  harrow  lag. 
Where  the  rude  dance  was  held  or  war-song  rose, 
The  scene  is  one  of  plenty  and  repose. 
The  quiver  of  her  race  is  empty  now, 
Its  bow  lies  broken  underneath  the  plough  ; 
And  where  the  wheat-fields  ripple  in  the  gale, 
The  vanished  hunter  scarcely  leaves  a  trail. 
'Twas  where  yon  river  musically  flows, 
'The  European's  nomenclature  rose  ; 
A  keen-edged  axe,  which  since,  alas !  has  swept 
Away  their  names — those  boughs,  which  blossoms  kept, 
Leaving  so  few,  that  when  their  story's  drowned, 
*Twill  sink,  alas !  with  no  fair  garland  crowned. 
What  strange  vicissitudes  and  perils  fell 
On  the  first  settlers  'tis  not  mine  to  tell ; 
I  scarce  may  pause  to  syllable  the  name 

66 


The  Jamestown  Anniversary  Ode, 

Which  the  great  Captain  left  behind  to  fame  ; 
A  name  which  echoes  through  the  tented  past 
Like  sound  of  charge  rung  in  a  bugle's  blast. 
His  age,  although  it  still  put  faith  in  stars, 
No  longer  glanced  through  feudal  helmet's  bars, 
But  stood  in  its  half  armor  ;  thus  stands  he 
An  image  half  of  antique  chivalry, 
And  half  presented  to  our  eager  eyes, 
The  brilliant  type  of  modern  enterprise. 
A  knightly  blade,  without  one  spot  of  rust, 
Undimmed  by  time  and  undefaced  by  dust, 
His  name  hangs  up  in  that  past  age's  hall, 
Where  many  hang,  the  brightest  of  them  all. 

67 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 


AN  ELEGIAC  ODE.* 


HE  chastens  us  as  nations  and  as  men, 
He  smites  us  sore  until  our  pride  doth  yield, 
And  hence  our  heroes,  each  with  hearts  for  ten, 
Were  vanquished  in  the  field  ; 

And  stand  to-day  beneath  our  Southern  sun 
O'erthrown  in  battle  and  despoiled  of  hope, 

Their  drums  all  silent  and  their  cause  undone, 
And  they  all  left  to  grope 

In  darkness  till  God's  own  appointed  time 
In  His  own  manner  passeth  fully  by. 

Our  Penance  this.     His  Parable  sublime 
Means  we  must  learn  to  die. 


*It  may  not  be  out  of  place  to  state  that  this  ode  was  written  at  the  ex 
press  and  urgent  request  of  the  ladies  of  Warren  county,  North  Carolina. 
and  recited  by  the  author,  August  8th,  1866,  on  the  occasion  of  the  comple 
tion  of  the  monument,  erected  by  the  ladies  of  Warren  county,  over  the 
ashes  of  Miss  Annie  Carter  Lee,  who  was  the  daughter  of  General  Robert 
E.  Lee  and  Mary  Custis  Lee;  born  at  Arlington,  Va.,  June  18th,  1339,  and 
died  at  the  White  Sulphur  Springs,  Warren  county,  North  Carolina,  October 
20th,  1862.  The  monument  was  unveiled  in  the  presence  of  a  great  con 
course  of  people,  and  with  Major-Generals  G.  W.  C.  Lee  and  W.  H.  F.  Lee, 
in  attendance,  as  representatives  of  their  family. 

68 


An  Elegiac  Ode. 

Not  as  our  soldiers  died  beneath  their  flags, 
Not  as  in  tumult  and  in  blood  they  fell, 

When  from  their  columns,  clad  in  homely  rags, 
Rose  the  Confederate  yell. 

Not  as  they  died,  though  never  mortal  men 
Since  Tubal  Cain  first  forged  his  cruel  blade 

Fought  as  they  fought,  nor  ever  shall  agen 
Such  Leader  be  obeyed  ! 

No,  not  as  died  our  knightly,  soldier  dead, 

Though  they,  I  trust,  have  found  above  surcease 

For  all  life's  troubles,  but  on  Christian  bed 
Should  we  depart  in  peace, 

Falling  asleep  like  those  whose  gentle  deeds 

Are  governed  through  time's  passions  and  its  strife, 

So  justly  that  we  might  erect  new  creeds 
From  each  well  ordered  life, 

Whose  saintly  lessons  are  so  framed  that  we 
May  learn  that  pain  is  but  a  text  sublime, 

Teaching  us  how  to  learn  at  Sorrow's  knee 
To  value  things  of  time. 

Thus  thinking  o'er  life's  promise-breaking  dreams, 
Its  lights  and  shadows  made  of  hopes  and  fears, 

I  say  that  Death  is  kinder  than  he  seems, 
And  not  the  King  of  Tears. 

69 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 


THE  CADETS  AT  NEW  MARKET/ 


THEIR  sleep  is  made  glorious, 
And  dead  they're  victorious 

Over  defeat ! 
Never  Lethean  billows 
Shall  roll  o'er  their  pillows, 

Red  with  the  feet 
Of  Mars  from  the  wine  press 
So  bitterly  sweet ! 

Sleeping,  but  glorious, 

Dead  in  Fame's  portal, 
Dead,  but  victorious, 

Dead,  but  immortal ! 
They  gave  us  great  glory, 

What  more  could  they  give  ? 
They  have  left  us  a  story, 

A  story  to  live — 

And  blaze  on  the  brows  of  the  State  like  a  crown, 
While  from  these  grand  mountains  the  rivers  run  down, 
While  grass  grows  in  graveyards,  or  the  Ocean's  deep 

calls, 
Their  deeds  and  their  glory  shall  fresco  these  walls. 


•Delivered  at  Virginia  Military  Institute,  1870. 

70 


A 


Our  Heroic  Dead. 


OUR  HEROIC  DEAD. 

I. 
KING  once  said  of  a  Prince  struck  down, 


"Taller  he  seems  in  death." 
And  this  speech  holds  truth,  for  now  as  then 
'Tis  after  death  that  we  measure  men, 
And  as  mists  of  the  past  are  rolled  away 
Our  heroes,  who  died  in  their  tattered  gray, 
Grow  "  taller  "  and  greater  in  all  their  parts 
Till  they  fill  our  minds  as  they  fill  our  hearts. 
And  for  those  who  lament  them  there's  this  relief- 
That  Glory  sits  by  the  side  of  Grief, 
Yes,  they  grow  "  taller  "  as  the  years  pass  by 
And  the  World  learns  how  they  could  do  and  die. 

II. 

A  Nation  respects  them.     The  East  and  West, 
The  far-off  slope  of  the  Golden  Coast, 
The  stricken  South  and  the  North  agree 
That  the  heroes  who  died  for  you  and  me — 
Each  valiant  man,  in  his  own  degree, 
Whether  he  fell  on  the  shore  or  sea, 

Did  deeds  of  which 

This  Land,  though  rich 
In  histories  may  boast, 
And  the  Sage's  Book  and  the  Poet's  Lay 
Are  full  of  the  deeds  of  the  Men  in  Gray. 


A   Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

III. 
No  lion  cleft  from  the  rock  is  ours, 

Such  as  Lucerne  displays, 
Our  only  wealth  is  in  tears  and  flowers, 

And  words  of  reverent  praise. 
And  the  Roses  brought  to  this  silent  Yard 

Are  Red  and  White.     Behold  ! 

They  tell  how  wars  for  a  kingly  crown, 
In  the  blood  of  England's  best  writ  down, 
Left  Britain  a  story  whose  moral  old 
Is  fit  to  be  graven  in  text  of  gold  : 
The  moral  is,  that  when  battles  cease 
The  ramparts  smile  in  the  blooms  of  peace. 

And  flowers  to-day  were  hither  brought 
From  the  gallant  men  who  against  us  fought ; 
York  and  Lancaster ! — Gray  and  Blue ! 
Each  to  itself  and  the  other  true — 

And  so  I  say 

Our  Men  in  Gray 

Have  left  to  the  South  and  North  a  tale 
Which  none  of  the  glories  of  Earth  can  pale. 

IV. 

Norfolk  has  names  in  the  sleeping  host 
Which  fill  us  with  mournful  pride — 
Taylor  and  Newton,  we  well  may  boast, 
McPhail,  and  Walke,  and  Selden,  too, 
Brave  as  the  bravest,  as  truest  true  ! 
And  Grandy  struck  down  ere  his  May  became  June, 
73 


Our  Heroic  Dead. 

A  battle-flag  folded  away  too  soon, 

And  Williams,  than  whom  not  a  man  stood  higher, 

'Mid  the  host  of  heroes  baptized  in  fire. 

And  Mallory,  whose  sires  aforetime  died, 

When  Freedom  and  Danger  stood  side  by  side. 

Mclntosh,  too,  with  his  boarders  slain, 

Saunders  and  Jackson,  the  unripe  grain, 

And  Taliaferro,  stately  as  knight  of  old, 

A  blade  of  steel  with  a  sheath  of  gold. 

And  Wright,  who  fell  on  the  Crater's  red  sod, 

Giving  life  to  the  Cause,  his  soul  to  GOD. 

And  there  is  another,  whose  portrait  at  length 

Should   blend   graces  of  Sidney   with   great   Raleigh's 

strength. 

Ah,  John  Randolph  Tucker !  *      To  match  me  this  name 
You  must  climb  to  the  top  of  the  Temple  of  Fame  ! 

These  are  random  shots  o'er  the  men  at  rest, 
But  each  rings  out  on  a  warrior's  crest. 
Yes,  names  like  bayonet  points,  when  massed, 
Blaze  out  as  we  gaze  on  the  splendid  past. 

V. 

That  past  is  now  like  an  Arctic  Sea 

Where  the  living  currents  have  ceased  to  run, 

But  over  that  past  the  fame  of  Lee 
Shines  out  as  the  "  Midnight  Sun  : " 

And  that  glorious  Orb,  in  its  march  sublime, 

Shall  gild  our  graves  till  the  end  of  time ! 

•That  splendid  seaman,  Admiral  Tucker. 

73 


A   Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 


Y 


MAHONE'S   BRIGADE.* 

A  METRICAL  ADDRESS. 
"In  pace  decus,  in  bello  presidium." — Tacitus. 

I. 
OUR  arms  are  stacked,  your  splendid  colors  furled. 

Your  drums  are  still,  aside  your  trumpets  laid, 
But  your  dumb  muskets  once  spoke  to  the  world — 
And  the  world  listened  to  Mahone's  Brigade. 

Like  waving  plume  upon  Bellona's  crest, 

Or  comet  in  red  majesty  arrayed, 
Or  Persia's  flame  transported  to  the  West, 

Shall  shine  the  glory  of  Mahone's  Brigade. 

Not  once,  in  all  those  years  so  dark  and  grim, 
Your  columns  from  the  path  of  duty  strayed  ; 

No  craven  act  made  your  escutcheon  dim — 

'Twas  burnished  with  your  blood,  Mahone's  Brigade. 

Not  once  on  post,  on  march,  in  camp,  or  field, 
Was  your  brave  leader's  trust  in  you  betrayed, 

And  never  yet  has  old  Virginia's  shield 

Suffered  dishonor  through  Mahone's  Brigade. 


*  Recited  at  Norfolk  Opera  House,  July  30, 1876,  the  twelfth  anniversary 
of  the  Battle  of  the  Crater,  and  second  reunion  of  survivors  of  Mahone'a 
old  brigade. 

74 


Methane's  Brigade. 

Who  has  forgotten  at  the  deadly  Mine, 

How  our  great  Captain  of  great  Captains  bade 

Your  General  to  retake  the  captured  line  ? 

How  it  was  done,  you  know,  Mahone's  Brigade. 

Who  has  forgotten  how  th'  undying  dead, 

And  you,  yourselves,  won  that  for  which  Lee  prayed  ? 

Who  has  forgotten  how  th'  Immortal  said  : 

That  "heroes"  swept  that  field,  Mahone's  Brigade? 

From  the  far  right,  beneath  the  "  stars  and  bars," 
You  marched  amain  to  Bushrod  Johnson's  aid, 

And  when  you  charged — an  arrow  shot  by  Mars 
Went  forward  in  your  rush,  Mahone's  Brigade. 

In  front  stood  death.  Such  task  as  yours  before 
By  mortal  man  has  rarely  been  essayed, 

There  you  defeated  Burnside's  boasted  corps, 
And  did  an  army's  work,  Mahone's  Brigade. 

And  those  who  led  you,  field,  or  line,  or  staff, 

Showed  they  were  fit  for  more  than  mere  parade ; 

Their  motto  :  "  Victory  or  an  epitaph," 

And  well  they  did  their  part,  Mahone's  Brigade. 

II. 

Were  mine  the  gift  to  coin  my  heart  of  hearts 
In  living  words,  fit  tribute  should  be  paid 

To  all  the  heroes  whose  enacted  parts 

Gave  fame  immortal  to  Mahone's  Brigade. 

75 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

But  he  who  bore  the  musket  is  the  man 

Whose  figure  should  for  future  time  be  made — 

Cleft  from  a  rock  by  some  new  Thorwaldsen — 
The  Private  Soldier  of  Mahone's  Brigade. 

His  was  that  sense  of  duty  only  felt 
By  souls  heroic.     In  the  modest  shade 

He  lived,  or  fell ;  but  his,  Fame's  Starry  Belt — 
His,  Fame's  own  Galaxy,  Mahone's  Brigade. 

And  in  that  Belt — all  luminous  with  stars, 
Unnamed  and  woven  in  a  wondrous  braid — 

A  blaze  of  glory  in  the  sky  of  Mars — 

Your  orbs  are  thickly  set,  Mahone's  Brigade. 

The  Private  Soldier  is  the  man  who  comes 

From  mart,  or  plain,  or  grange,  or  sylvan  glade, 

To  answer  calls  of  trumpets  and  of  drums — 
So  came  the  Soldier  of  Mahone's  Brigade. 

His  messmate,  hunger  ;  comrades,  heat  and  cold  ; 

His  decorations,  death  or  wounds,  conveyed 
To  the  brave  patriot  in  ways  manifold — 

But  yet  he  flinched  not  in  Mahone's  Brigade. 

When  needing  bread,  Fate  gave  him  but  a  stone  ; 

Ragged,  he  answered  when  the  trumpet  brayed  ; 
Barefoot  he  marched,  or  died  without  a  groan  ; 

True  to  his  battle-flag,  Mahone's  Brigade. 

Could  some  Supreme  Intelligence  proclaim, 
Arise  from  all  the  pomp  of  rank  and  grade, 
76 


Methane's  Brigade. 

War's  truest  heroes,  oft  we'd  hear  some  name, 
Unmentioned  by  the  world,  Mahone's  Brigade. 

And  yet  they  have  a  name,  enriched  with  thanks 
And  tears  and  homage — which  shall  never  fade — 

Their  name  is  simply  this  :  Men  of  the  Ranks — 

The  Knights  without  their  spurs — Mahone's  Brigade. 

And  though  unbelted  and  without  their  spurs, 
To  them  is  due  Fame's  splendid  accolade  ; 

And  theirs  the  story  which  to-day  still  stirs 
The  pulses  of  your  heart,  Mahone's  Brigade. 

Men  of  the  Ranks,  step  proudly  to  the  front, 

'Twas  yours  unknown  through  sheeted  flame  to  wade, 

In  the  red  battle's  fierce  and  deadly  brunt ; 
Yours  be  full  laurels  in  Mahone's  Brigade. 

III. 
For  those  who  fell  be  yours  the  sacred  trust 

To  see  forgetfulness,  shall  not  invade 
The  spots  made  holy  by  their  noble  dust ; 

Green  keep  them  in  your  hearts,  Mahone's  Brigade. 

Oh,  keep  them  green  with  patriotic  tears ! 

Forget  not,  now  war's  fever  is  allayed, 
Those  valiant  men,  who,  in  the  vanished  years, 

Kept  step  with  you  in  ranks,  Mahone's  Brigade. 

Each  circling  year,  in  the  sweet  month  of  May, 
Your  countrywomen — matron  and  fair  maid — 
77 


A   Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

Still  pay  their  tribute  to  the  Soldier's  clay, 

And  strew  his  grave  with  flow'rs,  Mahone's  Brigade. 

Join  in  the  task,  with  retrospective  eye  ; 

Men's  mem'ries  should  not  perish  'neath  the  spade  ; 
Pay  homage  to  the  dead,  whose  dying  cry 

Was  for  the  Commonwealth,  Mahone's  Brigade. 

Raise  up,  O  State !  a  shaft  to  pierce  the  sky, 
To  him,  the  Private,  who  was  but  afraid 

To  fail  in  his  full  duty — not  to  die  ; 

And  on  its  base  engrave,  "Mahone's  Brigade." 

IV. 

Now  that  the  work  of  blood  and  tears  is  done, 
Whether  of  stern  assault,  or  sudden  raid, 

Yours  is  a  record  second  yet  to  none — 

None  takes  your  right  in  line,  Mahone's  Brigade. 

Now  that  we've  lost,  as  was  fore-doomed,  the  day — 
Now  that  the  good  by  ill  has  been  outweighed — 

Let  us  plant  olives  on  the  rugged  way, 

Once  proudly  trodden  by  Mahone's  Brigade. 

And  when  some  far-stretchen  future  folds  the  past, 

To  us  so  recent,  in  its  purple  shade, 
High  up,  as  if  on  some  "  tall  Admiral's  mast," 

Shall  fly  your  battle-flags,  Mahone's  Brigade. 
78 


Mahone's  Brigade. 

V. 

Each  battle-flag  shall  float  abroad  and  fling 
A  radiance  round,  as  from  a  new-lit  star ; 

Or  light  the  air  about,  as  when  a  King 
Flashes  in  armor  in  his  royal  car ; 

And  Fame's  own  vestibule  I  see  inlaid 

With  their  proud  images,  Mahone's  Brigade. 

Your  battle-flags  shall  fly  throughout  all  time, 
By  History's  self  exulting ly  unfurled ; 

And  stately  prose,  and  loud-resounding  rhyme, 
Nobler  than  mine,  shall  tell  to  all  the  world 

How  dauntless  moved,  and  how  all  undismayed, 

Through  good  and  ill  stood  Mahone's  Brigade. 

O  glorious  flags  !     No  victory  could  stain 

Your  tattered  folds  with  one  unworthy  deed, 

O  glorious  flags !     No  country  shall  again 
Fly  nobler  symbols  in  its  hour  of  need. 

Success  stained  not,  nor  could  defeat  degrade ; 

Spotless  they  float  to-day,  Mahone's  Brigade. 

Immortal  flags,  upon  Time's  breezes  flung, 
Seen  by  the  mind  in  forests,  or  in  marts, 

Cherished  in  visions,  praised  from  tongue  to  tongue, 
Wrapped  in  the  very  fibres  of  your  hearts, 

And  gazing  on  them,  none  may  dare  upbraid 

Your  Leader,  or  your  men,  Mahone's  Brigade. 

79 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Say  Leaves. 

VI. 

That  splendid  Leader's  name  is  yours,  and  he 
Flesh  of  your  flesh,  himself  bone  of  your  bone, 

His  simple  name  maketh  a  history, 

Which  stands,  itself  grand,  glorious  and  alone, 

Or,  'tis  a  trophy,  splendidly  arrayed, 

With  all  your  battle-flags,  Mahone's  Brigade. 

His  name  itself  a  history?     Yes,  and  none 

May  halt  me  here.     In  war  and  peace 
It  challenges  the  full  rays  of  the  sun  ; 

And  when  the  passions  of  our  day  shall  cease, 
'Twill  stand  undying,  for  all  time  displayed, 
Itself  a  battle-flag,  Mahone's  Brigade. 

He  rose  successor  of  that  mighty  man 

Who  was  the  "  right  arm  "*  of  immortal  Lee  ; 

Whose  genius  put  defeat  beneath  a  ban  ; 

Who  swept  the  field  as  tempest  sweeps  the  sea  ; 

Who  fought  full  hard,  and  yet  full  harder  prayed. 

You  knew  that  man  full  well,  Mahone's  Brigade. 

And  here  that  great  man's  shadow  claims  a  place ; 

Within  my  mind  I  see  his  image  rise, 
With  Cromwell's  will  and  Havelock's  Christian  grace  ; 

As  daring  as  the  Swede,  as  Frederick  wise  ; 
Swift  as  Napoleon  ere  his  hopes  decayed  ; 
You  knew  the  hero  well,  Mahone's  Brigade. 

*  Stonewall  Jackson. 

80 


Methane's  Brigade. 

And  when  he  fell  his  fall  shook  all  the  land, 
As  falling  oak  shakes  mountain  side  and  glen ; 

But  soon  men  saw  his  good  sword  in  the  hand 
Of  one,  himself  born  leader  among  men, — 

Of  him  who  led  you  through  the  fusilade, 

The  storm  of  shot  and  shell,  Mahone's  Brigade. 

Immortal  Lee,  who  triumphed  o'er  despair, 
Greater  than  all  the  heroes  I  have  named, 

Whose  life  has  made  a  Westminster  where'er 
His  name  is  spoken  ;  he,  so  wise  and  famed, 

Gave  Jackson's  duties  unto  him  whose  blade 

Was  lightning  to  your  storms,  Mahone's  Brigade. 

Ere  Jackson  fell  Mahone  shone  day  by  day, 
A  burnished  lance  amid  that  crop  of  spears, — 

None  rose  above  him  in  that  grand  array ; 
And  Lee,  who  stood  Last  of  the  Cavaliers, 

Knew  he  had  found  of  War's  stupendous  trade, 

A  Master  at  your  head,  Mahone's  Brigade. 

O  Countrymen  !  I  see  the  coming  days 
When  he,  above  all  hinderances  and  lets 

Shall  stand  in  Epic  form,  lit  by  the  rays 
Of  Fame's  eternal  sun  that  never  sets, 

The  first  great  chapter  of  his  life  is  made, 

And  spoken  in  two  words — u  Mahone's  Brigade." 

O  Countrymen  !  I  see  historic  brass 

Leap  from  the  furnace  in  a  blazing  tide  ; 
6  81 


A   Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

I  see  it  through  strange  transformations  pass 

Into  a  form  of  energy  and  pride  ; 
Beneath  our  Capitol's  majestic  shade 
In  bronze  I  see  Mahone — Mahone's  Brigade. 

O  Countrymen !   When  dust  has  gone  to  dust, 
Still  shall  he  live  in  story  and  in  rhyme ; 

Then  History's  self  shall  multiply  his  bust, 
And  he  defy  the  silent  Conqueror,  Time. 

My  song  is  sung  :  My  prophecy  is  made — 

The  State  will  make  it  good,  Mahone's  Brigade. 
8a 


The  Portsmouth  Memorial  Poem. 


THE  PORTSMOUTH   MEMORIAL  POEM.— THE 
FUTURE   HISTORIAN. 

OH   the  women  of  Old  Portsmouth  in  their  patience 
were  sublime, 
As  in  working  and  in  praying  they  abided  GOD'S  own 

time  ! 
Marble  saints  in  a  stately  Minster,  in  some  land  across 

the  sea, 
In  a  flood  of  Winter  moonlight  were  not  half  so  pure  to 

me ! 
And  your  men  in  Grey  were  faithful !  they  were  counted 

with  the  best ! 
And  where  they  fought  no  shadow  fell  on  Old  Virginia's 

crest. 
Rags  in  cold,  bare  feet  in   marches  never  turned  your 

children  back ; 
In  retreat   they  loved    the  rearguard,  in  advance  they 

loved  attack ! 

Oh,  my  brothers  !  I  see  figures  which  all  flit  athwart  my 

brain, 
Like  the  torches  lit  by  lightning  in  some  tempest-driven 

rain, 

And  above  the  rushing  vision,  in  my  soul  I  hear  the  cry  : 
"  Those  who  fell  for  Home  and  Duty  left  us  names  that 

cannot  die !  " 

83 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

First,  before  the  sleeping  warriors,  comes  a  gentle  wo 
man's  face, 

Every  mark  Time  made  upon  it  seemed  to  add  a  Christian 
grace. 

Sister  of  the  soldier's  widow,  mother  of  his  orphan 
child, 

To  us  she  seemed,  indeed,  as  one  on  whom  her  GOD  had 
smiled, 

Passed  from  our  sight,  sustained  by  CHRIST,  she  went 
upon  her  way, 

And  be  you  sure,  as  I  am,  that  her  soul  is  here  to-day  ! 

Other  names  now  blaze  upon  me,  and  they  shine  out  one 

by  one 

As  the  rays  dart  out  a  glitter  from  a  shield  hung  in  the  sun. 
Fiske,  and  White,  and  brave  Vermillion,  fell  on  Malvern's 

deadly  slope, 
When  the  cause  that  they  defended  was  a-glow  with  life 

and  hope. 
Gallant  Butt,  and  two  Neimeyers  you  may  boast  in  mood 

of  pride, 
Types  were  they  of  valiant  soldiers,  and  like  soldiers  true 

they  died ! 
And   Grimes,  at  bloody  Sharpsburg,  went  down  prone 

upon  the  field, 
And  Hodges,  under  Pickett,  took  his  last  sleep  on   his 

shield. 
And  Cowley,  and   Forrest,  and  Wilson,  and  Cocke  on 

your  Window  still  blaze, 
84 


The  Portsmouth  Memorial  Poem. 

And  their  names  enrich  its  blazon  in  the  evening's  golden 

haze. 
Dunderdale,  and  Beaton,  and  Bennett,  and  Bingley,  and 

Armistead,  and  Gayle, 
And  Williams,  the  brave  Color  Sergeant,  and  Owens  are 

men  to  bewail. 

Last,  not  least,  there  comes  the  Seaman,  valiant  Cooke, 

my  cherished  friend, 

Who  was  faithful  to  Virginia  from  beginning  to  the  end  ; 
Had   the  theatre  been  given  he  had  played  a  Nelson's 

part, 
Or  in  Anson's  place  had  written  his  prodigious  log  and 

chart. 
Carolina — may  GOD  bless  her ! — gave  that  true  man  to 

the  State, 

With  a  heart  for  any  fortune  and  a  soul  for  any  fate. 
Seaman  of  the  blue  salt  water !   On  our  narrow  streams 

}ou  taught, 
Highest   lessons    of   devotion   in    the    battles    that   you 

fought. 

Other  names  crowd  fast  upon  me  as  stars  thicken  on  the 

view, 
When  the  night  comes  down  upon  us,  but  I  fix  my  gaze 

on  two — 
As  the  "  midland  oak  "  of  England  is  chief  tree  of  all  her 

trees — 
As  the  peak  of  Teneriffa  is  chief  peak  of  all  the  seas — 

85 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

So  our  mighty  Lee  and  Stonewall — greater  names  no  era 

boasts — 

Shall  exalt  their  Shades  forever  o'er  the  grand  Confed 
erate  Hosts ! 
'Twas  not  glory  that  they  fought  for  through  those  weary 

years  of  pain 
Though  the  glory  fell  upon  them  as  it  ne'er  may  fall 

again. 
That  sentiment  inspired  them  which  lifts  men  to  make 

them  great, 
Love  of  hearthstone,  friends,  and  neighbors,  and  devotion 

to  the  State. 
Not  as  rebels  but  as  warriors  they  sent  forth  their  famous 

cry — 
Not  as  traitors  but  as  freemen  they  went  forth  to  do  or 

die! 

Then  give  the  dead  your  tears,  oh,  friends,  upon  this  day 

of  days, 

And  let  a  solemn  joy  resound  in  all  your  words  of  praise  ! 
For  honor  still  has  claims  on  man,  and  duty  still  can  call 
Above  the  sordid  cares  of  life,  the  market  and  the  stall. 
Yes,  honor  still  has  claims  on  man !     Thank  GOD  that 

this  is  so ! 
And  there  are  heights  of  life  where  still  all  spotless  lies 

the  snow. 
Oh,  better  than  lands  and  vast  estates,  or  titles  high  and 

long 
The  spirit  of  those  whose  deeds  are  fit  to  consecrate  in 

Song! 

86 


TTie  Portsmouth  Memorial  Poem. 

When  Regulus  to  Carthage  went,  and  went  back  to  keep 

his  word, 
His  great  action  preached  a  homily  which  all  mankind 

has  heard. 
It  gave  to  the  sacred  cause  of  truth  an  impulse  which 

still  lives, 
And  left  the  world  the  moral  which  a  grand  example 

gives. 
Here,  within  a  nutshell's  compass,  the  high  argument 

appears 
Which  the  man  who  dies  for  duty  in  his  dying  moment 

cheers, 
And   'tis    thus    the    Human    Epic,    acted    out    by    all 

below, 
Takes  a  fuller  pulse  and  cadence  in  its  long-resounding 

flow. 

In  the  future  some  historian  shall  come  forth  both  strong 

and  wise, 
With  a  love  of  the  Republic,  and  the  truth,  before  his 

eyes. 
He  will  show  the  subtle  causes  of  the  war  between  the 

States, 
He  will  go  back  in   his  studies  far  beyond  our  modern 

dates, 
He  will   trace  out  hostile  ideas  as  the  miner  does  the 

lodes, 
He  will  show  the  different  habits  born  of  different  social 

codes, 

«7 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves, 

He  will  show  the  Union  riven,  and  the  picture  will  de 
plore, 

He  will  show  it  re-united  and  made  stronger  than  before. 

Slow  and  patient,   fair  and  truthful  must  the  coming 
teacher  be 

To  show  how  the  knife  was  sharpened  that  was  ground 
to  prune  the  tree. 

He  will  hold  the  Scales  of  Justice,  he  will  measure  praise 
and  blame, 

And  the  South  will  stand  the  verdict,  and  will  stand  it 
without  shame. 

88 


MONUMENT  AT  YOEKTOWN,  VIRGINIA. 


Arms  and  T/te  Man. 


ARMS  AND  THE  MAN. 

A  Metrical  Address  recited  on  the  one  hundredth  anniversary  of 
the  surrender  of  Lord  Cornwallis  at  Yorktown  on  invitation 
of  a  joint  committee  of  the  Senate  and  House  of  the  United 
States  Congress. 

PROLOGUE. 

PULL-BURNISHED    through    the    long-revolving 

years 

(    The  ploughshare  of  a  Century  to-day 
Runs  peaceful  furrows  where  a  crop  of  Spears 
Once  stood  in  War's  array. 

And  we,  like  those  who  on  the  Trojan  plain 

See  hoary  secrets  wrenched  from  upturned  sods  ; — 

Who,  in  their  fancy,  hear  resound  again 
The  battle-cry  of  gods  ; — 

We  now, — this  splendid  scene  before  us  spread 
Where  Freedom's  full  hexameter  began — 

Restore  our  Epic,  which  the  Nations  read 
As  far  its  thunders  ran. 

Here  visions  throng  on  People  and  on  Bard, 

Ranks  all  a-glitter  in  battalions  massed 
And^closed  around  as  like  a  plumed  guard, 

They  lead  us  down  the  Past. 

89 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

I  see  great  Shapes  in  vague  confusion  march 
Like  giant  shadows,  moving  vast  and  slow, 

Beneath  some  torch-lit  temple's  mighty  arch 
Where  long  processions  go. 

I  see  these  Shapes  before  me,  all  unfold, 
But  ne'er  can  fix  them  on  the  lofty  wall, 

Nor  tell  them,  save  as  she  of  Endor  told 
What  she  beheld  to  Saul. 

THE  DEAD  STATESMAN. 

I  see  his  Shape  who  should  have  led  these  ranks — 
GARFIELD  I  see  whose  presence  had  evoked 

The  stormy  rapture  of  a  Nation's  thanks — 
His  chariot  stands  unyoked  ! 

Unyoked  and  empty,  and  the  Charioteer 

To  Fame's  expanded  arms  has  headlong  rushed 

Ending  the  glories  of  a  grand  career, 
While  all  the  world  stood  hushed. 

The  thunder  of  his  wheels  is  done,  but  he 
Sustained  by  patience,  fortitude,  and  grace — 

A  Christian  Hero — from  the  struggle  free — 
Has  won  the  Christian's  race ! 

His  wheel-tracks  stop  not  in  the  Valley  cold 
But  upward  lead,  and  on,  and  up,  and  higher, 

Till  Hope  can  realize  and  Faith  behold 
His  chariot  mount  in  fire  ! 
90 


Arms  and  The  Man. 

Therefore,  my  Countrymen,  lift  up  your  hearts  ! 

Therefore,  my  Countrymen,  be  not  cast  down ! 
He  lives  with  those  who  well  have  done  their  parts, 

And  God  bestowed  his  crown! 

And  yet  another  form  to-day  I  miss  ; — 

Grigsby  the  scholar,  good,  and  pure,  and  wise, 

Who  now,  perchance,  from  scenes  of  perfect  bliss 
Looks  down  with  tender  eyes. 

Where  his  great  friend,  through  life  great  Winthrop  stands 
Winthrop,  whose  gift,  in  life's  departing  hours, 

Went  to  the  dying  Old  Virginian's  hands 
Who  died  amid  those  flowers.* 

Prayers  change  to  blooms,  the  ancient  Rabbins  taught ; 

So  his,  then,  seemed  to  blossom  forth  and  glow, 
As  if  his  supplicating  soul  had  brought 

Sandalphon  down  below. 

But,  happily,  that  Winthrop  stood  to-day, 

The  patriot,  scholar,  orator,  and  sage, 
To  tell  the  meaning  of  this  grand  array 

And  vindicate  an  Age. 


•Hugh  Blair  Grigsby,  L.L.  D., Chancellor  of  William  and  Mary  College, 
»nd  President  of  the  {Virginia  Historical  Society,  Scholar  and  Historian, 
died  on  the  day  on  which  he  received  a  gift  of  flowers  from  his  life-long 
friend,  Mr.  Winthrop,  and  these  literally  gladdened  the  dying  eyes  of  the 
noble  gentleman  whose  loss  will  long  be  deplored  by  all  who  knew  him, 
whether  they  live  in  Virginia  or  Massachusetts. 

91 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

That  Era's  life  and  meaning  his  to  teach, 
To  him  the  parchments,  but  the  shell  to  me, 

His  voice  the  voice  of  billows  on  the  beach 
Wherein  we  heard  the  sea. 

My  voice  the  voice  of  some  sequestered  stream 
Which  only  boasts,  as  on  its  waters  glide, 

That,  here  and  there,  it  shows  a  broken  gleam 
Of  pictures  on  its  tide. 

II. 
THE   COLONIES. 

The  fountain  of  our  story  spreads  no  clouds 
Of  mist  above  it  rich  in  varied  glows, 

None  paint  us  Gods  and  Goddesses  in  crowds 
Where  some  Scamander  flows. 

The  tale  of  Jamestown,  which  I  need  not  gild, 
With  that  of  Plymouth,  by  the  World  is  seen, 

But  none,  in  visions,  fancifully  build 
Olympus  in  between. 

At  Jamestown  stood  the  Saxon's  home  and  graves, 
There  Britain's  spray  broke  on  the  native  rock, 

There  rose  the  English  tide  with  crested  waves 
And  overwhelming  shock. 

Virginia  thence,  stirred  by  a  grand  unrest, 

Swept  o'er  the  waters,  scaled  the  mountain's  crag, 
92 


Arms  and  The  Man. 

Hewed  out  a  more  than  Roman  roadway  West, 
And  planted  there  her  flag. 

Her  fortune  was  forewritten  even  then — 
That  fortune  in  the  coming  years  to  be 

"  Mother  of  States  and  unpolluted  men," 
And  nurse  of  Liberty. 

Then  'twas  our  coast  all  bore  Virginia's  name  ; 

Next  North  Virginia  took  its  separate  place, 
And  grew  by  slow  degrees  in  wealth  and  fame 

And  Freedom's  special  grace. 

THE  NEW  ENGLAND  GROUP. 

At  Plymouth  Rock  a  handful  of  brave  souls, 
Full-armed  in  faith,  erected  home  and  shrine, 

And  flourished  where  the  wild  Atlantic  rolls 
Its  pyramids  of  brine. 

There  rose  a  manly  race  austere  and  strong, 
On  whom  no  lessons  of  their  day  were  lost, 

Earnest  as  some  conventicle's  deep  song, 
And  keen  as  their  own  frost. 

But  that  shrewd  frost  became  a  friend  to  those 
Who  fronted  there  the  Ice-King's  bitter  storm, 

For  see  we  not  that  underneath  the  snows 
The  growing  wheat  keeps  warm  ? 

Soft  ease  and  silken  opulence  they  spurned  ; 
From  sands  of  silver,  and  from  emerald  boughs 
93 


A   Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

With  golden  ingots  laden  full,  they  turned 
Like  Pilgrims  under  vows. 

For  them  no  tropic  seas,  no  slumbrous  calms, 
No  rich  abundance  generously  unrolled  : 

In  place  of  Cromwell's  proffered  flow'rs  and  palms 
They  chose  the  long-drawn  cold. 

The  more  it  blew,  the  more  they  faced  the  gale ; 

The  more  it  snowed,  the  more  they  would  not  freeze ; 
And  when  crops  failed  on  sterile  hill  and  vale — 

They  went  to  reap  the  seas  ! 

Far  North,  through  wild  and  stormy  brine  they  ran, 
With  hands  a-cold  plucked  Winter  by  the  locks ! 

Masterful  mastered  great  Leviathan 
And  drove  the  foam  as  flocks ! 

Next  in  their  order  came  the  Middle  Group, 

Perchance  less  hardy,  but  as  brave  they  grew, — 

Grew  straight  and  tall  with  not  a  bend,  or  stoop — 
Heart-timber  through  and  through ! 

Midway  between  the  ardent  heat  and  cold 
They  spread  abroad,  and  by  a  homely  spell, 

The  iron  of  their  axes  changed  to  gold 
As  fast  the  forests  fell ! 

Doing  the  things  they  found  to  do,  we  see 

That  thus  they  drew  a  mighty  empire's  charts, 

And,  working  for  the  present,  took  in  fee 
The  future  for  their  marts ! 

94 


Arms  and  The  Man, 

And  there  unchallenged  may  the  boast  be  made, 
Although  they  do  not  hold  his  sacred  dust, 

That  Penn,  the  Founder,  never  once  betrayed 
The  simple  Indian's  trust. 

To  them  the  genius  which  linked  Silver  Lakes 
With  the  blue  Ocean  and  the  outer  World, 

And  the  fair  banner,  which  their  commerce  shakes, 
Wise  Clinton's  hand  unfurled. 

THE    SOUTHERN    COLONIES. 

Then  sweeping  down  below  Virginia's  Capes, 
From  Chesapeake  to  where  Savannah  flows, 

We  find  the  settlers  laughing  'mid  their  grapes 
And  ignorant  of  snows. 

The  fragrant  uppoivock,  and  golden  corn 
Spread  far  a-field  by  river  and  lagoon, 

And  all  the  months  poured  out  from  Plenty's  Horn 
Were  opulent  as  June. 

Yet,  they  had  tragedies  all  dark  and  fell ! 

Lone  Roanoke  Island  rises  on  the  view, 
And  this  Peninsula  its  tale  could  tell 

Of  Opecancanough ! 

But,  when  the  Ocean  thunders  on  the  shore 
Its  waves,  though  broken,  overflow  the  beach  ; 

So  here  our  Fathers  on  and  onward  bore 
With  English  laws  and  speech. 

95 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

Kind  skies  above  them,  underfoot  rich  soils ; 

Silence  and  Savage  at  their  presence  fled  ; 
This  Giant's  Causeway,  sacred  through  their  toils, 

Resounded  at  their  tread. 

With  ardent  hearts,  and  ever-open  hands, 

Candid  and  honest,  brave  and  proud  they  grew, 

Their  lives  and  habits  colored  by  fair  lands 
As  skies  give  waters  hue. 

The  race  in  semi-Feudal  State  appears — 
Their  Knightly  figures  glow  in  tender  mist, 

With  ghostly  pennons  flung  from  ghostly  spears 
And  ghostly  hawks  on  wrist. 

By  enterprise  and  high  adventure  stirred, 
From  rude  lunette  and  sentry-guarded  croft 

They  hawked  at  Empire,  and,  as  on  they  spurred, 
Fate's  falcon  soared  aloft ! 

Fate's  falcon  soared  aloft  full  strong  and  free, 

With  blood  on  talons,  plumage,  beak,  and  breast ! 

Her  shadow  like  a  storm-shade  on  the  sea 
Far-sailing  down  the  West ! 

Swift  hoofs  clang  out  behind  that  Falcon's  flights — 
Hoofs  shod  with  Golden  Horse  Shoes  catch  the  eye  \ 

And  as  they  ring,  we  see  the  Forest-Knights — 
The  Cavaliers  ride  by ! 

96 


Arms  and  The  Man. 

THE    OLD    DOMINION. 

Midway  between  the  orange  and  the  snows 
As  some  fair  planet  rounds  up  from  the  sea, 

Eldest  of  all,  the  Central  Power  arose 
In  vague  immensity. 

She  stretched  from  Seas  in  sun  to  Lakes  in  Shade, 
O'erstepped  swift  Rio  JSscondido's  stream — 

Her  bounds  expressed,  as  by  the  Tudor  made, 
An  Alexander's  dream. 

And  liberal  Stuart  granted  broad  and  free 

Bound'ries  which  still  the  annalist  may  boast — 

Limits  which  ran  "  throughout  from  sea  to  sea," 
And  far  along  the  coast ! 

A  mighty  shaft  through  Raleigh's  fingers  slipped, 
Smith  shot  it,  and — a  Continent  awoke  ! 

For  that  great  arrow  with  an  acorn  tipped, 
Planted  an  English  Oak ! 

III. 
THE  OAKS  AND  THE  TEMPEST. 

Oaks  multiplied  apace,  and  o'er  the  seas 

Big  rumors  went  in  many  a  winding  ring ; 
And  stories  fabulous  on  every  breeze 
Swept  to  a  distant  King. 

Full  many  a  tale  of  wild  romance,  and  myth, 

In  large  hyperbole  the  New  World  told, 
7  97 


A   Wreath  of  Virginia  Say  Leaves. 

And  down  from  days  of  Raleigh  and  of  Smith 
The  Colonies  meant  gold. 

Not  from  Banchoonan's  mines  came  forth  the  ore, 
But  from  the  waters,  and  the  woods,  and  fields, 
Paid  for  in  blood,  but  bringing  more  and  more 
The  wealth  that  labor  yields. 

Then  seeing  this,  that  King  beyond  the  sea, 

The  jus  divinum  rilling  all  his  soul, 
Bethought  him  that  he  held  these  lands  in  fee 
And  absolute  control. 

When  this  high  claim  in  action  was  displayed 

With  one  accord  the  young  Plantations  spoke, 
.And  told  him,  English-like,  they  were  not  made 
To  plough  with  such  a  yoke. 

Thus  met,  not  his  to  falter,  or  to  flag, 

A  sudden  fury  seized  the  Royal  breast — 
Prometheus  bound  upon  a  Scythian  crag 
His  policy  expressed. 

.And,  so,  he  ordered  in  those  stormy  hours 
His  adamantine  chains  for  one  and  all, 
Brute  "Force"  and  soulless  "Strength"  the  only  Powers 
On  which  he  chose  to  call. 

Great  men  withstood  him  many  a  weary  day  ; 

In  Press  and  Parliament  full  well  they  strove  : 
But  all  in  vain,  for  he  was  bound  to  play 
A  travesty  on  Jove ! 
98 


Arms  and  The  Man. 

Then  flamed  the  crater !     And  the  flame  took  wing ; 

Furious  and  far  the  lava  blazed  around, 
Until  at  last,  on  this  same  spot  that  King 
His  Herculaneum  found ! 

Breed's  Hill  became  Vesuvius,  and  its  stream 

Rushed  forth  through  years,  a  God-directed  tide 
To  light  two  Worlds  and  realize  the  dream 
For  which  brave  Warren  died. 

IV. 

THE  EMBATTLED  COLONIES. 

Before  this  thought  the  present  hour  recedes, 
As  from  the  beach  a  billow  backward  rolls, 
And  the  great  past,  rich  in  heroic  deeds 
Illuminates  our  souls ! 

Stern  Massachusetts  Bay  uplifts  her  form, 

Boston  the  tale  of  Lexington  repeats, 
With  breast  unarmored  she  confronts  the  storm — 
New  England  England  meets. 

I  see  the  Middle  Group  by  Fortune  made 

The  bloody  Flanders  of  the  Northern  Coast, 
And,  in  a  varying  play  of  light  and  shade, 
Host  thundering  fall  on  host. 

I  see  the  Carolinas,  Georgia,  mowed 

By  War  the  Reaper,  and  grim  Ruin  stalk 

99 


A   Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

O'er  wasted  fields ; — but  Guilford  paved  the  way 
That  led  to  this  same  York. 

Here,  too,  Virginia  in  the  vision  comes — 

Full-bent  to  crown  the  battle's  closing  arch, 
Her  pulses  trumpets  and  her  heart  throbs  drums, 
To  animate  her  march. 

As  Pocahontas,  in  a  by-gone  time, 

Leaped  forth  the  wrath  of  Powhatan  to  brave, 
Virginia  came,  and  here  she  stood  sublime 
To  perish,  or  to  save. 

I  see  her  interposing  now  her  frame 

Between  her  sisters  and  the  alienbands, 
And  taking  both  of  Freedom  and  of  Fame 
Full  seisin  with  her  hands. 

V. 

WELCOME  TO  FRANCE. 

But,  in  that  fiery  zone 
She  upriseth  not  alone, 
Over  all  the  bloody  fields 
Glitter  Amazonian  shields ; 
While  through  the  mists  of  years 
Another  form  appears, 
And  as  I  bow  my  head 
;    Already  you  have  said : — 
'Tis  France ! 
100 


Arms  and  The  Man. 

Welcome  to  France ! 
From  sea  to  sea, 
With  heart  and  hand  ! 
Welcome  to  all  within  the  land — 
Thrice  welcome  let  her  be ! 

And  to  France 
The  Union  here  to-day 
Gives  the  right  of  this  array, 
And  folds  her  to  her  breast 
As  the  friend  that  she  loves  best. 

Yes  to  France. 

The  proud  Ruler  of  the  West 
Bows  her  sun-illumined  crest, 

Grave  and  slow, 
In  a  passion  of  fond  memories  of 

One  hundred  years  ago  ! 

France's  colors  wave  again 
High  above  this  tented  plain, 
Stream  and  flaunt,  and  blaze  and  shine, 
O'er  the  banner-painted  brine, 

Float  and  flow ! 
And  the  brazen  trumpets  blow 
While  upon  her  serried  lines, 
Full  the  light  of  Freedom  shines 

In  a  broad,  effulgent  glow. 

And  here  this  day  I  see 
The  fairest  dream  that  ever  yet 

Was  dreamt  by  History ! 
101 


A   Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

As  in  cadence,  and  in  time, 
To  the  martial  throb  and  rhyme 
Of  her  bugles  and  her  drums 

Forth  a  stately  vision  comes — 
Comes  majestically  slow — 
Comes  a  fair  and  stately  vision  of 

One  hundred  years  ago  ! 

Welcome  to  France ! 
From  sea  to  sea, 
With  heart  and  hand  ! 
Welcome  to  all  within  the  land ! 
Thrice  welcome  let  her  be ! 
Of  Freedom's  Guild  made  free  ! 
Welcome ! 

Thrice  Welcome ! 
Welcome  let  her  be ! 

And  as  in  days  of  old 
Walter  Raleigh  did  unfold 
His  gay  cloak,  with  all  its  hems 
Wrought  in  braided  gold  and  gems, 
That  his  Queen  might  passing  tread 
On  the  sumptuous  cloth  outspread, 
And  step  on  the  shining  fold 
Or  fair  samnite  rich  in  gold. 

So  for  France — 

Splendid,  grand,  majestic  France ! — 
May  Fortune  down  her  mantle  throw 

To  mend  the  way  that  she  may  go ! 


Arms  and  The  Man. 

May  GLORY  leap  before  to  reap — 
Up  to  the  shoulders  turned  her  sleeves — 

And  FAME  behind  follow  to  bind 
Unnumbered  honors  in  unnumbered  sheaves  ! 
And  may  that  mantle  forever  be 
Under  thy  footfall,  oh  France  the  Free ! 

Forever  and  forever ! 

VI. 

THE  ALLIES  AT  YORKTOWN. 

And  here  France  came  one  hundred  years  ago ! 

Red,  russet,  purple  glowed  upon  the  trees, 
And  sunset  glories  deepened  in  their  glow 
Along  the  painted  seas. 

A  wealth  of  color  blazed  on  land  and  wave, 

Topaz  and  gold,  and  crimson  met  the  eye — 
October  hailed  the  ships  which  came  to  save 
With  banners  in  the  sky. 

DeBarras  swept  down  from  the  Northern  coast, 

DeGrasse,  foam-driving,  came  with  favoring  breeze, 
And  here  surprised  the  proud,  marauding  host 
Like  spectres  of  the  seas. 

Then  was  no  time  for  such  a  boastful  strain 

As  Campbell  sang  o'er  Baltic's  bloody  tide, 
Nor  did  Britannia  dominate  the  main 
In  customary  pride. 
103 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

France  closed  this  river,  and  France  ruled  yon  sea, 

Held  all  our  waters  in  triumphant  state, 
Her  sails  foretelling  what  was  soon  to  be 
Like  Ministers  of  Fate. 

And  when  the  Union  chants  her  proudest  Lay 

DeGrasse  is  often  on  her  tuneful  lips, 
And  his  achievement  challenges  to-day 
Some  Homer  of  the  ships. 

So,  when  this  spot  its  monument  shall  crown 

His  name  upon  its  base  two  Worlds  shall  see, 
With  a  fair  wind  his  story  shall  sail  down 
Through  Ages  yet  to  be, 

VII. 
THE  RAVAGES  OF  WAR. 

This  on  the  water :  on  the  land  a  scene 

Whose  Epic  scope  is  far  beyond  my  power, 
For  on  this  spot  a  People's  fate  hath  been 
Decided  in  an  hour. 

Long  was  the  conflict  waged  through  weary  yeare 

Counted  from  when  the  sturdy  farmers  fell : 
Hopes  crucified,  red  trenches,  bitter  tears, 
Made  Man  another  hell ! 

See  pallid  women  girt  in  woe  and  weeds ! 
See  little  children  gaunt  for  lack  of  food ! 
104 


Arms  and  TTie  Man. 

Behold  the  catalogue  of  War's  black  deeds 
Where  evil  stands  for  good  ! 

See  slaughtered  cattle,  never  more  to  roam, 

Rot  in  the  fields,  while  chimneys  tall  and  bare 
Tell  in  dumb  pathos  how  some  quiet  home 
Lit  up  the  midnight  air! 

See  that  burnt  crop,  yon  choked-up  sylvan  well, 

This  yeoman  slain  yecorven  in  the  sun ! 
My  GOD!  shreds  of  a  woman's  dress  to  tell 
Why  murder  there  was  done ! 

Such  things  as  these  gave  edge  to  all  the  blows 

Our  fathers  struck  on  this  historic  sod, 
Feet,  hands,  and  faces  turned  toward  their  foes — 
Their  valiant  hearts  to  GOD. 

VIII. 
THE  LINES  AROUND  YORKTOWN. 

Troops  late  by  Williamsburg's  brave  palace  walls, 

With  trump  and  drum  had  marched  down  Glo'ster 

street, 

And  some  with  throb  of  oars,  and  loud  sea-calls 
Had  landed  from  the  fleet. 

And  well  our  leader  had  befooled  his  foes — 

Left  them  like  archers  blundering  in  the  dark 
To  draw  against  the  empty  space  their  bows, 
While  here  was  their  true  mark. 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

Brave  Lincoln  on  the  right  with  kindling  eye 

Smiles  'mid  the  cares  of  grave  command  immersedr 
To  see  dramatic  retribution  nigh 

And  Charleston's  fate  reversed  ! 

The  Light  Troops  stood  upon  the  curved  right  flank, 

New  Hampshire,  Massachusetts  Bay  were  there, 
Connecticut  marched  with  them,  rank  on  rank, 
And  gallant  Delaware. 

There,  too,  Virginia's  sturdy  yeomen  stood, 

Led  on  by  Nelson  of  the  open  hand, 
As  thick  and  stubborn  as  a  living  wood 
In  some  enchanted  land. 

Next  came  the  steady  Continental  Line, 

Rhode  Island,  and  New  Jersey,  breast  to  breast, 
Ready  to  tread  the  hot  and  smoking  wine 

From  War's  red  clusters  pressed. 

New  York  and  Pennsylvania  on  these  plains 

Closed  boldly  in  on  the  embattled  town, 
Nor  feared  they  threatened  penalties  and  pains 
Of  Parliament,  or  Crown. 

And  Maryland,  the  gay  and  gallant  came, 
As  always  ready  for  the  battle's  brunt ; 
And  here  again  Virginia  faced  the  flame 
Along  the  deadly  front. 
1 06 


Arms  and  77ie  Man. 

IX. 

THE  FRENCH  IN  THE  TRENCHES. 

And  as  the  allied  hosts  advance 
All  the  left  wing  is  given  to  France, 

Is  given  to  France  and — Fame ! 
Yes,  these  together  always  ride 
The  Dioscouroi  of  the  tide 

Where  War  plays  out  the  game ! 
And  that  broad  front  'tis  her's  to  hold 
With  hand  of  iron,  heart  of  gold 

And  helmet  plumed  with  flame. 
Across  the  river  broad  she  sends 
DeChoisy  and  Lauzun  where  ends 

The  leaguer  far  and  wide, 
While  Weedon  seconds  as  he  may 
The  gallant  Frenchmen  in  array 

Upon  the  Gloucester  side. 

As  waves  hurled  on  a  stranded  keel 
Make  all  the  oaken  timbers  reel 

With  many  a  pond'rous  blow, 
So  day  by  day,  and  night  by  night 
The  French  like  billows  foaming  white 

Thunder  against  the  foe. 
107 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

X. 

NELSON  AND  THE  GUNNERS. 

O'er  town,  and  works,  and  waves  amain 
Far  fell  grim  Ruin's  furious  rain, 

O'er  parapet  and  mast, 
And  riding  on  the  thunder-swell 
Far  flew  the  shot,  far  flew  the  shell 

Red  Havoc  on  the  blast ! 
Then  as  the  flashing  cannon  sowed 
Their  iron  crop  brave  Nelson  rode, 

His  bridle  bit  all  foam, 
Up  to  the  gunners,  and  said  he : 
"  Batter  yon  mansion  down  for  me  " — 

"  Basement,  and  walls,  and  dome  !  " 
And  better  to  sharpen  those  gunners'  wits, 
"  Five  guineas,"  he  cried, "  for  each  shot  that  hits !  "• 

That  mansion  was  his  home ! 

XL 

THE  BELEAGUERED  TOWN. 

Behind  the  town  the  sun  sinks  down 
Gilding  the  vane  upon  the  spire, 

While  many  a  wall  reels  to  its  fall 
Beneath  the  fell  artillery  fire. 

As  sinks  that  sun  mortar  and  gun 

Like  living  things  leap  grim  and  hot, 
1 08 


Arms  and  The  Man. 

And  far  and  wide  across  the  tide 
Spray-furrows  show  the  flying  shot. 

White  smoke  in  clouds  yon  earthwork  shrouds 
Where,  steeped  in  battle  to  the  lips, 

The  French  amain  pour  fiery  rain 

On  town,  and  walls,  and  English  ships. 

That  deadly  sleet  smites  lines  and  fleet, 

As  closes  in  the  Autumn  night, 
And  Aboville  from  head  to  heel 

Thrills  with  the  battle's  wild  delight. 

At  every  flash  oak  timbers  crash — 
A  sudden  glare  yon  frigate  dyes ! 

Then  flames  up-gush,  and  roar,  and  rush, 
From  deck  to  where  her  pennon  flies ! 

Those  flames  on  high  crimson  the  sky 
And  paint  their  signals  overhead, 

And  every  fold  of  smoke  is  rolled 
And  woven  in  Plutonian  red. 

All  radiant  now  taffrail  and  prow, 

And  hull,  and  cordage,  beams  and  spars, 

Thus  lit  she  sails  on  fiery  gales 

To  purple  seas  where  float  the  stars. 

Ages  ago  just  such  a  glow 

Woke  Agamemnon's  house  to  joy, 

Its  red  and  gold  to  Argos  told 
The  long-expected  fate  of  Troy. 
109 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

So,  on  these  heights,  that  flame  delights 
The  Allies  thundering  at  the  wall, 

Forewrit  they  see  the  land  set  free 
And  Albion's  short-lived  Ilium  fall ! 

Then  as  the  Lilies  turn  to  red 
Dipped  in  the  battles'  wine 
Another  picture  is  outspread 
Where  still  the  figures  shine — 
The  picture  of  a  deadly  fray 
Worthy  the  pencil  of  Vernet ! 

XII. 

STORMING  THE  REDOUBTS. 

On  the  night  air  there  floating  comes,  hoarse,  war-like, 

low  and  deep, 
A  sound  as  tho'  the  dreaming  drums  were  talking  in  their 

sleep. 

"  Fall  in  !  Fall  in  !  "     The  stormers  form,  in  silence,  stern 

and  grim, 
Each  heart  full-beating  out  the  time  to  Freedom's  battle 

hymn. — 

"  Charge !  en  Avant  /  " — The  word  goes  forth  and  forth 

the  stormers  go, 
Each  column  like  a  mighty  shaft  shot  from  a  mighty 

bow. 

no 


Arms  and  The  Man. 

And  tumult  rose  upon  the  night  like  sound  of  roaring 

seas, 
Mars  drank  of  the  Horn  of  Ulphus  and  he  drained  it  to 

the  lees ! 

Now  by  fair  Freedom's  splendid  dreams  !  it  was  a  gallant 
sight 

To  see  the  blows  against  the  foes  well  struck  that  Au 
tumn  night ! 

Gimat,  and  Fish,  and  Hamilton,  and  Laurens  pressed  the 

foe, 
And  Olney — brave  Rhode  Islander ! — was   there,  alas ! 

laid  low. 

Viominil,  and  Noallies,  and  Damas,  stout  and  brave, 
Broke  o'er  the  English  right  redoubt  a  steel-encrested 
wave. 

St.  Simon  from  his  sick  couch  rose,  wooed  by  the  battle's 

charms, 
And  like  a  knight  of  old  romance  went  to  the  shock  of 

arms. 

[But  they  who  bore  the  muskets,  who  went  charging 

thro'  the  flame, 
Deserve   far   more    than  ever   will   be   given    them    by 

Fame — 

Then  let  us  pour  libations  out ! — full  freely  let  them  flow 
For  the  men  who  bore  the  muskets  here  a  century  ago !] 

in 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

And,  then,  the  columns  won  the  works,  and  then  uprose 

the  cheers 
That  have  lasted  us  and  ours  for  a  good  one  hundred 

years ! 

And    there   were   those   amid  the  French  filled  with  a 

rapture  stern 
And  long  the  cry  resounded  :  "  Live  the  Regiment  of 

Auverne ! " 

Long  live  the  Gallic  Army  "and  long  live  splendid  France, 
The  Power  that  gives  to  History  the  beauty  of  Romance ! 

Upon  our  right  commanded  one  dearer  by  far  than  all, 
The  hero  who  first  came  to  us  and  came  without  a  call ; 

Whose  name  with  that  of  his  leader  all  histories  entwine, 
The  one  as  is  the  mighty  oak,  the  other  as  the  vine ; 

The  one  the  staff,  the  other  the  great  banner  on  its  lance — 
Now,  need  I  name  the  dearest  name  of  all  the  names  of 
France  ? 

Oh,  Marquis  brave  !     Upon  this  shaft,  deep-cut  thy  cher 
ished  name 

Twin  Old  Mortalities  shall  find — fond   Gratitude    and 
Fame! 

112 


Arms  and  TTie  Man. 

THE   TWO    LEADERS. 

Two  chieftains  watch  the  battle's  tide  and  listen   as  it 

rolls 
And  only  HEAVEN  above  can  tell  the  tumult  of  their 

souls ! 

Cornwallis  saw  the  British  power  struck   down  by  one 

fell  blow, 
A  Gallic  spearhead  on  the  lance  that  laid  the  Lion  low. 

But  the  Father  of  his  Country  saw  the  future  all  unrolled, 
Independence  blazed  before  him  written  down  in  text  of 
gold, 

Like  the  Hebrew,  on  the  mountain,  looking  forward  then 
he  saw 

The  Promised  Land  of  Freedom  blooming  under  Free 
dom's  law  ; 

Saw  a  great  Republic  spurring  in  the  lists  where  Nations 

ride, 
The  peer  of  any  Power  in  her  majesty  and  pride  ; 

Saw  that  young  Republic  gazing  through  her  helmet's 

gilded  bars 
Toward  the  West  all  luminous  with  th'  light  of  coming 

stars ; 

From  Atlantic  to  Pacific  saw  her  banners  all  unfurled 
Heard  sonorous  trumpets  blowing  blessed  Peace   with 

all  the  world? 
8  113 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Say  Leaves. 

Roused  from  this  glorious  vision,  with  success  within  his 

reach, 
In   few  and  simple  words  he  made  this  long-resounding 

speech  : 

"  The  work  is  done,  and  well  done  :"  thus  spake  he  on 

this  sod, 
In  accents  calm  and  measured  as  the  accents  of  a  God. 

God,  said  I  ?     Yes,  his  image  rises  on  the  raptured  sight 
Like  Baldur,  the  fair  and  blameless,  the  Goth's  God  of 
the  Light ! 

XIII. 

THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  END. 

As  some  spent  gladiator,  struck  by  Death, 

Whose  reeling  vision  scarce  a  foe  defines, 
For  one  last  effort  gathers  all  his  breath, 
England  draws  in  her  lines. 

Her  blood-red  flag  floats  out  full  fair,  but  flows 

O'er  crumbling  bastions,  in  fictitious  state : 
Who  stands  a  siege  Cornwallis  full  well  knows, 
Plays  at  a  game  with  Fate. 

Siege  means  surrender  at  the  bitter  end, 

From  Ilium  downward  such  the  sword-made  rule, 
With  few  exceptions,  few  indeed  amend 
This  law  in  any  school ! 
114 


Arms  and  The  Man. 

The  student  who  for  these  has  ever  sought 
'Mid  his  exceptions  Csesar  counts  as  one, 
Besieger  and  besieged  he,  victor,  fought 
Under  a  Gallic  sun. 

For  Vircinget'rex  failed,  but  at  the  wall : 

He  strove  and  failed  gilded  by  Glory's  ravs 
So  that  true  soldiership  describes  that  Gaul 
In  terms  of  honest  praise. 

But  there  was  not  a  Julius  in  the  lines 

Round  which  our  Chief  the  fatal  leaguer  drew, 
The  noble  Earl,  though  valiant,  never  shines 
'Mid  War's  majestic  few. 

By  hopes  and  fears  in  agonies  long  tossed — 

[Clinton  hard  fixed  in  method's  rigid  groove] 
The  British  Leader  saw  the  game  was  lost ; 
But,  still,  it  had  one  move ! 

Could  he  attain  yon  spreading  Gloucester  shore ; 

Could  he  and  his  cross  York's  majestic  tide  ; 
He,  then,  might  laugh  to  hear  the  cannon  roar 
And  far  for  safety  ride. 

Bold  was  the  plan !  and  generous  Light  Horse  Lee 

Gives  it  full  measure  of  unstinted  praise ; 

But  PROVIDENCE  declared  this  should  not  be 

In  its  own  wondrous  ways. 

Loud  roared  the  storm  !     The  rattling  thunders  rang ! 
Against  the  blast  his  rowers  could  not  row ! 

"5 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  B0y  Leaves. 

White  waves  like  hoary-headed  Homers  sang 
Hexameters  of  woe. 

Then  came  the  time  to  end  the  mighty  Play, 

To  drop  the  curtain  and  to  quench  the  lamps, 
And  soon  the  story  took  its  jocund  way 
Through  all  the  Allied  camps. 

"  Measure  for  measure  "  then  was  righteous  law, 

The  cup  of  Lincoln,  bowed  Cornwallis  pressed, 
And  as  he  drank  the  wondering  Nations  saw 
A  sunrise — in  the  West! 

Death  fell  upon  the  Royal  cause  that  day, 

The  King  stood  like  Swift's  oak  with  blighted  crest, 
Headpiece  and  Crown  both  cleft  he  drooped  away  : 
Hie  jacet — tells  the  rest ! 

And  patriots  stood  where  traitors  late  were  jeered, 

Transformed  from  rebels  into  freemen  bold, 
What  seemed  Membrino's  helmet  now  appeared 
A  real  casque  of  gold ! 

XIV. 
THE  SURRENDER  OF  LORD  CORNWALLIS. 

Next  came  the  closing  scene  :  but  shall  I  paint 
The  scarlet  column,  sullen,  slow,  and  faint, 
Which  marched,  with  "  colors  cased  "  to  yonder  field, 
Where  Britain  threw  down  corslet,  sword  and  shield? 

116 


Arms  and  77ie  Man. 

Shall  I  depict  the  anguish  of  the  brave 

Who  envied  comrades  sleeping  in  the  grave? 

Shall  I  exult  o'er  inoffensive  dust 

Of  valiant  men  whose  swords  have  turned  to  rust? 

Shall  I,  like  Menelaus  by  the  coast, 

O'er  dead  Ajaces  make  unmanly  boast? 

Shall  I,  in  chains  of  an  ignoble  Verse, 

Degrade  dead  Hectors,  and  their  pangs  rehearse — 

Nay  !  such  is  not  the  mood  this  People  feels, 

Their  chariots  drag  no  foemen  by  the  heels  1 

Let  Ajax  slumber  by  the  sounding  sea 

From  the  fell  passion  of  his  madness  free ! 

Let  Hector's  ashes  unmo'ested  sleep — 

But  not  to-day  shall  any  Priam  weep ! 

OUR   ANCIENT  ALLIES. 

Superb  in  white  and  red,  and  white  and  gold, 
And  white  and  violet,  the  French  unfold 
Their  blazoned  banners  on  the  Autumn  air, 
While  cymbols  clash  and  brazen  trumpets  blare  : 
Steeds  fret  and  foam,  and  spurs  with  scabbards  clank 
As  far  they  form,  in  many  a  shining  rank. 
Deux-Ponts  is  there,  as  hilt  to  sword  blade  true, 
And  Guvion  rises  smiling  on  the  view  ; 
And  the  brave  Swede,  as  yet  untouched  by  Fate, 
Rides  'mid  his  comrades  with  a  mien  elate; 
And  Duportail — and  scores  of  others  glance 
Upon  the  scene,  and  all  are  worthy  France! 
And  for  those  Frenchmen  and  their  splendid  bands, 

117 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

The  very  Centuries  shall  clap  their  hands, 
While  at  their  head,  as  all  their  banners  flow, 
And  all  their  drums  roll  out,  and  trumpets  blow, 
Rides  first  and  foremost  splendid  Rochambeau ! 
And  well  he  rides,  worthy  an  epic  rhyme — 
Full  well  he  rides  in  attitude  sublime — 
Fair  Freedom's  Champion  in  the  lists  of  Time. 

THE  CONTINENTALS. 

In  hunting  shirts,  or  faded  blue  and  buff, 
And  many  clad  in  simple,  rustic  stuff, 
Their  ensigns  torn  but  held  by  Freedom's  hand, 
In  long-drawn  lines  the  Continentals  stand. 
To  them  precision,  if  not  martial  grace  ; 
Each  heart  triumphant  but  composed  each  face ; 
Well  taught  in  military  arts  by  brave  Steuben, 
With  port  of  soldiers,  majesty  of  men, 
All  fathers  of  their  Country  like  a  wall 
They  stand  at  rest  to  see  the  curtain  fall. 
Well- taught  were  they  by  one  who  learned  War's  trade 
From  Frederick,  whom  not  Ruin's  self  dismayed  ; — 
Well-taught  by  one  who  never  lost  the  heat 
Caught  on  an  anvil  where  all  Europe  beat ; — 
Beat  in  a  storm  of  blows,  with  might  and  main, 
But  on  that  Prussian  anvil  beat  in  vain ! 
And  to  the  gallant  race  of  Steuben's  name 
That  long  has  held  close  intercourse  with  Fame, 
This  great  Republic  bows  its  lofty  crest, 
And  folds  his  kinsmen  to  her  ample  breast : 

118 


Arms  and  TTie  Man. 

At  fray,  or  festival,  on  march  or  halt, 
Von  Steuben  always  far  above  the  salt ! 

"THE  MARQIJIS." 

The  Brave  young  Marquis,  second  but  to  one 
For  whom  he  felt  the  reverence  of  a  son, 
Rides  at  the  head  of  his  division  proud — 
A  ray  of  Glory  painted  on  the  cloud ! 
Mad  Anthony  is  there,  and  Knox — but  why 
Great  names  like  battle  flags  attempt  to  fly  ? 
Who  sings  of  skies  lit  up  by  Jove  and  Mars 
Thinks  not  to  chant  a  catalogue  of  stars ! 
I  bow  me  low,  and  bowing  low  I  pass 
Unnumbered  heroes  in  unnumbered  mass, 
While  at  their  head  in  grave,  and  sober  state, 
Rides  one  whom  Time  has  found  completely  great 
Master  of  Fortune  and  the  match  of  Fate ! 
***** 

Then  Tilghman  mounted  on  these  Plains  of  York 
Swift  sped  away  as  speeds  the  homing  hawk, 
And  soon  'twas  his  to  wake  that  watchman's  cry 
That  woke  all  Nations  and  shall  never  die ! 

THE  ANCIENT  ENEMIES. 

Brave  was  the  foeman !  well  he  held  his  ground ! 
But  here  defeat  at  kindred  hands  he  found ! 
The  shafts  rained  on  him,  in  a  righteous  cause, 
Came  from  the  quiver  of  Old  England's  laws ! 
119 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Say  Leaves. 

He  fought  in  vain  ;  and  on  this  spot  went  down 

The  jus  divinum,  and  the  kingly  crown. 

But  for  those  scenes  Time  long  has  made  amends, 

The  ancient  enemies  are  present  friends  ; 

Two  swords,  in  Massachusetts,  rich  in  dust, 

And,  better  still,  the  peacefulness  of  rust, 

Told  the  whole  story  in  its  double  parts 

To  one  who  lives  in  two  great  nations'  hearts  ; 

And  late  above  Old  England's  roar  and  din 

Slow-tolling  bells  spoke  sympathy  of  kin  : 

Victoria's  wreath  blooms  on  the  sleeping  breast 

Of  him  just  gone  to  his  reward  and  rest, 

And  firm  and  fast  between  two  mighty  Powers 

New  treaties  live  in  those  undying  flowers. 

THE  SPLENDID  THREE. 

Turned  back  my  gaze,  on  Spain's  romantic  shore 

I  see  Gaul  bending  by  the  grave  of  Moore, 

And  later,  when  the  page  of  Fame  I  scan 

I  see  brave  France  at  deadly  Inkerman, 

While  on  red  Balaklava's  field  I  hear 

Gallia's  applause  swell  Albion's  ringing  cheer. 

England  and  France,  as  Allies,  side  by  side 

Fought  on  the  Pieho's  melancholy  tide, 

And  there,  brave  Tattnall,  ere  the  fight  was  done, 

Stirred  English  hearts  as  far  as  shone  the  sun, 

Or  tides  and  billows  in  their  courses  run. 

That  day,  'mid  the  dark  Pieho's  slaughter 

120 


Arms  and  The  Man. 

He  said  :  "  Blood  is  thicker  than  water!" 

And  your  true  man  though  "brayed  in  a  mortar" 

At  feast,  or  at  fray 

Will  still  feel  it  and  say 
As  he  said :  "Blood  is  thicker  than  water!" 

And  full  homely  is  the  saying  but  this  story  always 
starts 

An  answer  from  ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand  kin 
dred  hearts. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  as  the  sun  shines  ever  on  the  sea 
Fair  Peace  forevermore  may  smile  upon  the  Splendid 
Three ! 

<w   . 

May  happy  France  see  purple  grapes  a-glow  on  all  her 

hills, 
And  England  breast-deep  in  her  corn   laugh  back  the 

laugh  of  rills! 

May  this  fair  land  to  which  all  roads  lead  as  the  roads  of 

Rome 
Led  to  th'  eternal  city's  gates  still  offer  Man  a  home — 

A  home  of   peace  and  plenty,  and  of  freedom  and  of 

ease, 
With  all  before  him  where  to  choose  between  the  shining 

seas! 

121 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

May  the  war-cries  of  the  Captains  yield  to  happy  reapers 

shouts, 
And  the   clover   whiten   bastions   and   the  olive  shade 

redoubts ! 

XV. 

THE  WAR  HORSE  DRAWS  THE  PLOUGH. 

At  last  our  Fathers  saw  the  Treaty  sealed, 

Victory  unhelmed  her  broad,  majestic  brow, 
The  Sword  became  a  Sickle  in  the  field, 
The  war  horse  drew  the  plough. 

There  is  a  time  when  men  shape  for  their  Land 

Its  institutions  'mid  some  tempests'  roar, 
Just  as  the  waves  that  thunder  on  the  strand 
Shape  out  and  round  the  shore. 

Then  comes  a  day  when  institutions  turn 

And  carve  the  men,  or  cast  them  into  moulds  ; 
One  Era  trembles  while  volcanoes  burn, 
Another  Age  beholds 

The  hardened  lava  changed  to  hills  and  leas, 

With  blooming  glebes  and  orchards  intermixed, 
Vineyards  which  look  abroad  o'er  purple  seas, 
And  deep  foundations  fixed. 

So,  when  fell  Chaos  like  a  baleful  Fate 

What  we  had  won  seemed  bent  to  snatch  away 
Sound  thinkers  rose  who  fashioned  out  the  State 
As  potters  fashion  clay. 

122 


Arms  and  The  Man. 

XVI. 
HEROES  AND  STATESMEN. 

Of  their  great  names  I  may  record  but  few  ; 

He  who  beholds  the  Ocean  white  with  sails 
And  copies  each  confuses  all  the  view, 
He  paints  too  much — and  fails. 

His  picture  shows  no  high,  emphatic  light, 

Its  shadows  in  full  mass  refuse  to  fall, 
And  as  its  broken  details  meet  the  light 
Men  turn  it  to  the  wall. 

Of  those  great  names  but  few  may  pass  my  lips, 

For  he  who  speaks  of  Salamis  then  sees 
Not  men  who  there  commanded  Grecian  ships — 
But  grand  Themistocles ! 

Yet  some  I  mark,  and  these  discreetly  take 

To  grace  my  verse  through  duty  and  design, 
As  one  notes  barks  that  leave  the  broadest  wake 
Upon  the  stormy  Brine. 

These  rise  before  me  ;  and  there  Mason  stands 

The  Constitution-maker  firm  and  bold, 

Like  Bernal  Diaz,  planting  with  kind  hands 

Fair  trees  to  blaze  in  gold. 

Amid  the  lofty  group  sedate,  I  see 

Great  Franklin  muse  where  Truth  had  locked  her  stores, 

123 


A   Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

Holding  within  his  steady  hand  the  key 
That  opened  many  doors. 

And  Trumbull,  strong  as  hammered  steel  of  old, 

Stands  boldly  out  in  clear  and  high  relief, — 
A  blade  unbending  worth  a  hilt  of  gold, — 
He  never  failed  his  Chief. 

Then  Robert  Morris  glides  into  my  Verse 

Turning  the  very  stones  at  need  to  bread — 
Filling  the  young  Republic's  slender  purse 
When  Credit's  self  seemed  dead. 

Tylers  I  see — sprung  from  the  sturdy  Wat — 

A  strong-armed  rebel  of  an  ancient  date, 
With  Falkland-Carys  come,  to  draw  the  lot 
Cast  in  the  helm  of  Fate. 

And  Marshall  in  his  ermine  white  as  snow, 

Wise,  learned  and  profound  Fame  loves  to  draw, 
His  noble  function  on  the  Bench  to  show 
That  Reason  is  the  Law. 

His  sword  unbuckled  and  his  brows  unbent, 

The  gallant  Hamilton  again  appears, 
And  in  fair  Freedom's  mighty  Parliament 
He  marches  with  the  Peers  ! 

Henry  is  there  beneath  his  civic  crown  ; 

He  speaks  in  words  that  thunder  as  they  flow, 
124 


Arms  and  The  Man. 

And  as  he  speaks  his  thunder-tones  bring  down 
An  avalanche  below ! 

Nor  does  John  Adams  in  the  picture  lag, 

He  was  as  bold,  as  resolute,  and  free, 
As  is  the  eagle  on  a  misty  crag 
Above  a  stormy  sea. 

And  'mid  his  fellows  in  those  days  of  need, 

Impassioned  Jefferson  burns  like  a  sun, 
The  New  World's  Prophet  of  the  New  World's  Creed — 
Prophet  and  Priest  in  one ! 

These  two  together  stood  in  our  great  past, 

When  Independence  flamed  across  the  land  ; 
On  Independence  Day  these  two  at  last 
Departed  hand  in  hand. 

And  they  are  taken  by  a  patriot's  mind 

As  kindred  types  of  our  great  Saxon  stock, 
And  that  same  thinker  hopes  some  day  to  find 
Both  statues  in  one  block.* 

But,  here  I  number  splendid  names  too  fast, 

Heroes  and  Sages  throng  behind  this  group, 
And  thick  they  come  as  came  in  Homer's  past 
A  Goddess  and  her  troop ; 

And  as  that  troop,  'mid  frays  and  fell  alarms, 
Swept,  all  a-glitter,  on  their  mission  bent, 

*  This  fine  idea  is  borrowed  from  one  of  the  addresses  of  Mr,  Winthrop, 
the  orator  of  the  occasion. 


A   Wreath  of  Virginia  13 ay  Leaves. 

And  bore  from  Vulcan  the  resplendent  arms 
To  great  Achilles  sent, 

So  came  the  names  that  light  my  pious  Song — 
Came  bearing  Union  forged  in  high  debates — 
A  sun-illuminated  Shield,  and  strong, 
To  guard  these  mighty  States. 

The  Shield  sent  to  the  son  of  Peleus  glowed 

With  hammered  wonders,  all  without  a  flaw  ; 
The  Shield  of  Union  in  its  splendor  showed 
The  Compromise  of  Law. 

And  as  the  Epic  lifts  a  form  sublime 

For  all  the  Ages  on  its  plinth  of  gold, 
So  does  our  Story,  challenging  all  time, 
Its  crowning  shape  uphold  ! 

XVII. 
PATER  PATRICE. 

Achilles  came  from  Homer's  Jove-like  brain, 

Pavilioned  'mid  his  ships  where  Thetis  trod  ; 
But  he  whose  image  dominates  this  plain 
Came  from  the  hand  of  God ! 

Yet,  of  his  life,  which  shall  all  time  adorn 

I  dare  not  sing  ;  to  try  the  theme  would  be 
To  drink  as  'twere  that  Scandinavian  Horn 
Whose  tip  was  in  the  Sea. 

136 


Arms  and  The  Man, 

I  bow  my  head  and  go  upon  my  ways, 

Who  tells  that  story  can  but  gild  the  gold — 
Could  I  pile  Alps  on  Apennines  of  praise 
The  tale  would  not  be  told. 

Not  his  the  blade  which  lyric  fables  say 

Cleft  Pyrenees  from  ridge  to  nether  bed, 
But  his  the  sword  which  cleared  the  Sacred  Way 
For  Freedom's  feet  to  tread. 

Not  Caesar's  genius  nor  Napoleon's  skill 

Gave  him  proud  mast'ry  o'er  the  trembling  earth ; 
But  great  in  honesty,  and  sense  and  will — 
He  was  the  "  man  of  worth." 

He  knew  not  North,  nor  South,  nor  West,  nor  East : 

Childless  himself,  Father  of  States  he  stood, 

Strong  and  sagacious  as  a  Knight  turned  Priest, 

And  vowed  to  deeds  of  good. 

Compared  with  all  Earth's  heroes  I  may  say 

He  was,  with  even  half  his  virtues  hid, 
Greater  in  what  his  hand  refrained  than  they 
Were  great  in  what  they  did. 

And  thus  his  image  dominates  all  time, 

Uplifted  like  the  everlasting  dome 
Which  rises  in  a  miracle  sublime 
Above  eternal  Rome. 

On  Rome's  once  blooming  plain  where'er  we  stray 
That  dome  majestic  rises  on  the  view, 
127 


A   Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

Its  Cross  a-glow  with  every  wandering  ray 
That  shines  along  the  Blue. 

So  his  vast  image  shadows  all  the  lands, 

So  holds  forever  Man's  adoring  eye, 
And  o'er  the  Union  which  he  left  it  stands 
Our  Cross  against  the  sky ! 

XVIII. 
THE  FLAG  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 

My  harp  soon  ceases  ;  but  I  here  allege 

Its  strings  are  in  my  heart  and  tremble  there : 
My  Song's  last  strain  shall  be  a  claim  and  pledge — 
A  claim,  a  pledge,  a  prayer ! 

I  stand,  as  stood,  in  storied  days  of  old, 
Vasco  Balboa  staring  o'er  bright  seas 
When  fair  Pacific's  tide  of  limpid  gold 
Surged  up  against  his  knees. 

For  haughty  Spain,  her  banner  in  his  hand, 

He  claimed  a  New  World,  sea,  and  plain,  and  crag- 
I  claim  the  Future's  Ocean  for  this  land 
And  here  I  plant  her  flag ! 

Float  out,  oh  flag,  from  Freedom's  burnished  lance  ! 
Float  out,  oh  flag,  in  Red,  and  White,  and  Blue ! 
The  Union's  colors  and  the  hues  of  France 
Commingled  on  the  view  ! 
1 18 


Arms  and  The  Man. 

Float  out,  oh  flag,  and  all  thy  splendors  wake ! 

Float  out,  oh  flag,  above  our  Hero's  bed ! 
Float  out,  oh  flag,  and  let  thy  blazon  take 
New  glories  from  the  dead ! 

Flot  out,  oh  flag,  o'er  Freedom's  noblest  types ! 

Float  out,  oh  flag,  all  free  of  blot  or  stain ! 
Float  out,  oh  flag,  the  "  Roses  "  in  thy  stripes 
Forever  blent  again ! 

Float  out,  oh  flag,  and  float  in  every  clime ! 

Float  out,  oh  flag,  and  blaze  on  every  sea ! 
Float  out,  oh  flag,  and  float  as  long  as  Time 
And  Space  themselves  shall  be  ! 

Float  out,  oh  flag,  o'er  Freedom's  onward  march  ! 

Float  out,  oh  flag,  in  Freedom's  starry  sheen ! 
Float  out,  oh  flag,  above  the  Union's  arch 
Where  Washington  is  seen  ! 

Float  out,  oh  flag,  above  a  smiling  Land ! 

Float  out,  oh  flag,  above  a  peaceful  sod ! 
Float  out,  oh  flag,  thy  staff  within  the  hand 
Beneficent  of  God ! 

XIX. 

THE  SOUTH  IN  THE  UNION. 

An  ancient  Chronicle  has  told 
That,  in  the  famous  days  of  old, 
9  "9 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

In  Antioch  under  ground 
The  self-same  lance  was  found — 
Unbitten  by  corrosive  rust — 
The  lance  the  Roman  soldier  thrust 

In  CHRIST'S  bare  side  upon  the  Tree ; 

And  that  it  brought 

A  mighty  spell 

To  those  who  fought 

The  Infidel 

And  mighty  victory. 

And  so  this  day 

To  you  I  say — 
Speaking  for  millions  of  true  Southern  men — 

In  words  that  have  no  undertow — 

I  say,  and  say  agen  : 

Come  weal,  or  woe, 

Should  this  Republic  ever  fight, 

By  land,  or  sea, 
For  present  law,  or  ancient  right 

The  South  will  be 

As  was  that  lance, 

Albeit  not  found 

Hid  under  ground 
But  in  the  forefront  of  the  first  advance  ! 

'Twill  fly  a  pennon  fair 
As  ever  kissed  the  air, 
On  it,  for  every  glance, 
Shall  blaze  majestic  France 
130 


Arms  and  The  Man. 

Blent  with  our  Hero's  name 

In  everlasting  flame, 

And  written,  fair  in  gold, 

This  legend  on  its  fold : 

Give  us  back  the  ties  of  Yorktown ! 

Perish  all  the  modern  hates  ! 
Let  us  stand  together,  brothers, 

In  defiance  of  the  Fates  ; 

FOR  THE  SAFETY  OF  THE  UNION 

Is  THE  SAFETY  OF  THE  STATES  ! 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 


TO  ALEXANDER  GALT,  THE  SCULPTOR. 

Alas !  he's  cold  ! 

OLD  as  the  marble  which  his  fingers  wrought — 
Cold,  but  not  dead  ;  for  each  embodied  thought 
Of  his,  which  he  from  the  Ideal  brought 

To  live  in  stone, 
Assures  him  immortality  of  fame. 

Gait  is  not  dead  ! 

Only  too  soon 

We  saw  him  climb 
Up  to  his  pedestal,  where  equal  Time 
And  coming  generations,  in  the  noon 
Of  his  full  reputation,  yet  shall  stand 
To  pay  just  homage  to  his  noble  name. 

Our  Poet  of  the  Quarries  only  sleeps, 

He  cleft  his  pathway  up  the  future's  steeps, 

And  now  rests  from  his  labors. 

Hence  'tis  I  say  ; 
For  him  there  is  no  death, 
Only  the  stopping  of  the  pulse  and  breath — 
But  simple  breath  is  not  the  all  in  all ; 
Man  hath  it  but  in  common  with  the  brutes — 
Life  is  in  action  and  in  brave  pursuits  ! 
132 


To  Alexander  Gait,  the  Sculptor. 

By  what  we  dream,  and  having  dreamt,  dare  do, 
We  hold  our  places  in  the  world's  large  view, 
And  still  have  part  in  the  affairs  of  men 
When  the  long  sleep  is  on  us. 

He  dreamt  and  made  his  dreams  perpetual  things 
Fit  for  the  rugged  cell  of  penitential  saints, 
Or  sumptuous  halls  of  Kings, 
And  showed  himself  a  Poet  in  the  Art 
He  chiselled  Lyrics  with  a  touch  so  fine, 
With  such  a  tender  beauty  of  their  own. 
That  rarest  songs  broke  out  from  every  line 
And  verse  was  audible  in  voiceless  stone ! 
His  Psyche,  soft  in  beauty  and  in  grace, 
Waits  for  her  lover  in  the  Western  breeze, 
And  a  swift  smile  irradiates  her  face, 
As  though  she  heard  him  whisper  in  the  trees. 

His  passion-stricken  Sappho  seems  alive — 
Before  her  none  can  ever  feel  alone, 
For  on  her  face  emotions  so  do  strive 
That  we  forget  she  is  but  pallid  stone  ; 
And  all  her  tragedy  of  love  and  woe 
Is  told  us  in  the  chilly  marble's  snow. 

Bacchante,  with  her  vine-crowned  hair, 
Leaps  to  the  cymbal-measured  dance 
With  such  a  passion  in  her  air — 
Upon  her  brow — upon  her  lips — 
As  thrills  you  to  the  finger-tips, 
And  fascinates  your  glance. 


A   Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

These  are,  as  'twere,  three  of  his  Songs  in  stone — 
The  first  full  of  the  tenderness  of  love, 
Speaking  of  moon-rise,  and  the  low  wind's  call : 
The  second  of  love's  tragedy  and  fall ; 
The  third  of  shrill,  mad  laughter,  and  the  tone 
Of  festal  music,  on  whose  rise  and  fall 
Swift-footed  dancers  follow. 

Nobler  than  these  sweet  lyric  dreams, 
Dreamt  out  beside  Italia's  streams, 
He'd  worked  some  Epic  studies  out,  in  part — 
To  leave  them  incomplete  his  chiefest  pain 
When  the  low  pulses  of  his  failing  heart 
Admonished  him  of  death. 

Ay  1  he  had  soared  upon  a  lofty  wing, 
Wet  with  the  purple  and  encrimsoned  rain 
Of  dreams,  whose  clouds  had  floated  o'er  his  brain 
Until  it  ached  with  glories. 

If  you  would  see  his  Epic  studies,  go — 
Go  with  the  student  from  his  dim  arcade — 
Halt  where  the  Statesman  standeth  in  the  hall, 
And  mark  how  careless  voices  hush  and  fall, 
And  all  light  talk  to  sudden  pause  is  brought 
In  presence  of  the  noble  type  of  thought — 
Embodied  Independence  which  he  wrought 
From  stone  of  far  Carrara. 

View  his  Columbus  :  Hero  grand  and  meek, 
Scarred  'mid  the  battle's  long-protracted  brunt — 


7o  Alexander  Gait,  the  Sculptor. 

Palos  and  Salvador  stamped  on  his  front, 
With  not  a  line  about  it,  poor  or  weak — 
A  second  Atlas,  bearing  on  his  brow 
A  New  World,  just  discovered. 

Go  see  Virginia's  wise,  majestic  face 
With  some  faint  shadow  of  her  coming  woe 
Writ  on  the  broad,  expansive,  virgin  snow 
Of  her  imperial  forehead,  just  as  though 
Some  disembodied  Prophet-hand  of  eld 
The  Sculptor's  chisel  in  its  touch  had  held, 
Foreshadowing  her  coming  crown  of  thorns — 
Her  crown  and  her  great  glory ! 
These  of  the  many  ;  but  they  are  enough — 
Enough  to  show  that  I  have  rightly  said 
The  marble's  snow  bids  back  from  him  decay, 
He  sleepeth  long  ;  but  sleeps  not  with  the  dead 
Who  die,  and  are  forgotten  ere  the  clay 
Heaped  over  them  hath  hardened  in  the  sun. 

This  much  of  Gait,  the  Artist : 

Of  the  man 

Fain  would  I  speak,  but  in  sad  sooth  I  can 
Ne'er  find  the  words  wherein  to  tell 
How  he  was  loved,  or  yet  how  well 

He  did  deserve  it. 

All  things  of  beauty  were  to  him  delight — 
The  sunset's  clouds — the  turret  rent  apart — 
The  stars  which  glitter  in  the  noon  of  night — 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

Spoke  in  one  voice  unto  his  mind  and  heart, 
His  love  of  Nature  made  his  love  of  Art, 

And  had  his  span 

Of  life  been  longer 
He  had  surely  done 
Such  noble  things  that  he 
Like  to  a  soaring  eagle  would  have  been 
At  last — lost  in  the  sun ! 

136 


To  the  Poet- Priest  Ryan. 


TO  THE  POET-PRIEST  RYAN. 

IN    ACKNOWLEDGMENT    OF    A    COPY    OF    HIS    POEMS. 

Himself  I  read  beneath  the  words  he  writes,    *    *    * 
I  may  come  back  and  sing  again. — RYAN. 

I. 

THIS  Bard's  to  me  a  whole-souled  man 
In  honesty  and  might, 
For  when  he  sees  Wrong  in  the  van 

He  leaps  like  any  Knight 
To  horse,  and  charging  on  the  wrong 
Smites  it  with  the  great  sword  of  Song. 

II. 

Beneath  the  cassock  of  the  Priest 

There  throbs  another  heart — 
Another — but  'tis  not  the  least — 

Which  in  his  Lays  takes  part, 
So  that  'mid  clash  of  Swords  and  Spears 
There  is  no  lack  of  Pity's  tears. 

III. 

This  other  heart  is  brave  and  soft, 
As  such  hearts  always  are, 


A.   Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

And  plumes  itself,  a  bird  aloft, 

When  Morning's  gates  unbar — 
Till  high  it  soars  above  the  sod 
Bathed  in  the  very  light  of  God. 

IV. 

Woman  and  Soldier,  Priest  and  Man, 

I  find  within  these  Lays, 
And  the  closer  still  th'  Verse  I  scan 

The  more  I  see  to  praise  : 
Some  of  these  Lyrics  shower  down 
The  glories  of  the  Cross  and  Crown. 

V. 

To  thee,  oh  Bard !  my  head  I  bow, 

As  I'd  not  to  a  King, 
And  my  last  word,  writ  here  and  now, 

Is  not  a  little  thing  ; 
Recall  the  promise  of  thy  strain — 
Thou  art  to  "  come  and  sing  again !  " 
138 


Three  Names. 


THREE  NAMES. 

VIRGINIA  in  her  proud,  Colonial  days 
Boasts  three  great  names  which  full  of  glory  shine  ; 
Two  glitter  like  the  burnished  heads  of  spears, 

The  third  in  tender  light  is  half  divine. 
Turning  that  page  my  eager  fancy  hears 
Trumpets  and  drums,  and  fleet  on  fleet  appears. 

Those  names  are  graven  deep  and  broad,  to  last 
And  outlast  Ages  :  while  recording  Time 
Hands  down  their  story,  worth  an  Epic  Rhyme 

To  light  her  future  by  her  splendid  past : 

One  planned  the  Saxon's  Empire  o'er  these  lands, — 
The  other  planted  it  with  valiant  hands — 

The  third,  with  Mercy's  soft,  celestial  beams, 

Lights  fair  romances,  histories  and  dreams. 


SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH. 

Whether  in  velvet  white,  slashed,  and  be-pearled, 
And  rich  in  knots  of  clustering  gems  a-glow  : 
Or,  in  his  rusted  armor,  he  unfurled 
St.  George's  Cross  by  Oronoko's  flow  ; 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

He  was  a  man  to  note  right  well  as  one 
Who  shot  his  arrows  straightway  at  the  sun. 

Dark  was  his  hair,  his  beard  all  crisp  and  curled, 
And  narrow-lidded  were  his  piercing  eyes, 
Anhungered  in  their  glances  for  a  world 
That  he  might  win  by  daring  enterprise, — 
Explorer,  soldier,  scholar,  poet,  he 
Not  only  wrote  but  acted  historic !  — 
And  that  great  Captain,  of  our  Saxon  stock, 
Took  his  last  slumber  on  the  ghastly  block ! 


CAPTAIN  JOHN  SMITH. 

A  yeoman  born,  with  patrimony  small, 
He  held  the  world  at  large  as  his  estate  ; 
Found  fit  advices  in  the  bugle's  call 
And  took  his  part  in  iron-tongued  debate 
Where'er  one  sword  another  sword-blade  notched ; 
Ne'er  was  he  slain,  though  often  he  was  scotched, 
Now  down,  now  up,  but  always  fronting  fate. 

At  last  a  figure  resolute,  and  grand 
In  arms  he  leaped  upon  Virginia's  strand  ; 
Fitted  in  many  schools  his  course  to  steer 
He  knew  the  ax,  the  musketoon,  and  brand, 
How  to  obey,  and  better  to  command  ; 
First  of  his  line  he  stood — a  planted  spear 
The  New  World  saw  the  English  Pioneer ! 

140 


TJiree  Names. 

POCAHONTAS. 

Her  story,  sure,  was  fashioned  out  above, 

Ere  't  was  enacted  on  the  scene  below ! 

For  't  was  a  very  miracle  of  love 

When  from  the  savage  hawk's  nest  came  the  dove 

With  wings  of  peace  to  stay  the  ordered  blow — 

The  hawk's  plumes  bloody,  but  the  dove's  as  snow  ! 

And  here  my  heart  oppressed  by  pleasant  tears 
Yields  to  a  young  girl's  half  angelic  spell — 
Yes,  for  that  maiden  like  a  Saint  appears ; 
She  needs  no  fresco,  stone,  nor  shrine  to  tell 
Her  story  to  the  people  of  this  Land — 
Saint  of  the  Wilderness,  enthroned  amid 
The  wooded  Minster  where  the  Pagan  hid ! 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 


SUNSET  ON  HAMPTON  ROADS. 

f~)  EHIND  me  purplish  lines  marked  out  the  town, 
* — '     Before  me  stretched  the  noble  Roadstead's  tide  : 
And  there  I  saw  the  Evening  sun  go  down 
Casting  a  parting  glory  far  and  wide — 
As  King  who  for  the  cowl  puts  off  his  crown — 
So  went  the  sun  :  and  left  a  wealth  of  light 
Ere  hidden  by  the  cloister-gates  of  Night. 

Beholding  this  my  soul  was  stilled  in  prayer, 
I  understood  how  all  men,  save  the  blind, 
Might  find  religion  in  a  scene  so  fair 
And  formulate  a  creed  within  the  mind ; — 
See  prophesies  in  clouds  ;  fates  in  the  air ; 
The  skies  flamed  red  ;  the  murm'ring  waves  were  hushed- 
"  The  conscious  water  saw  its  God  and  blushed." 

142 


A  King's  Gratitude. 


A  KING'S  GRATITUDE. 

PLAIN  men  have  fitful  moods  and  so  have  Kings, 
For  Kings  are  only  men,  and  often  made 
Of  clay  as  common  as  e'er  stained  a  spade. 
But  when  the  great  are  moody,  then,  the  strings 
Of  gilded  harps  are  smitten,  and  their  strains 
Are  soft  and  soothing  as  the  Summer  rains. 

And  Saul  was  taken  by  an  evil  mood, 

He  felt  within  himself  his  spirit  faint : 
In  vain  he  tossed  upon  his  couch  and  wooed 

Refreshing  slumbers.     Sleep  knows  no  constraint ! 
Then  David  came :  his  physic  and  advice 

All  in  a  harp,  and  cleared  the  mind  of  Saul — 
And  Saul  thereafter  launched  his  javelin  twice 

To  nail  the  harper  to  the  palace  wall ! 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 


"THE  TWINSES."* 

TWO  little  children  toddled  up  to  me, 
Their  faces  fair  as  faces  well  could  be, 
Roses  and  snow,  but  pale  the  roses  were 
Like  flowers  fainting  for  the  lack  of  air. 

Sad  was  the  tender  study  which  I  gave 

The  winning  creatures,  both  so  sweet  and  grave, 
Two  beautiful  young  Saxons,  scarce  knee  high ! 

As  like  as  peas !     Two  Lilliputian  men  ! 

Immortal  ere  they  knew  it  by  the  pen 
Which  waketh  laughter  or  bedews  the  eye. 

God  bless  you,  little  people  !     May  His  hand 
Hold  you  within  its  hollow  all  your  days ! 
Smooth  all^the  rugged  places,  and  your  ways 

Make  long  and  pleasant  in  a  fruitful  land ! 

•Children  of  his  friend,  Dr.  George  W.  Bagby. 

M4 


Dreamers. 


DREAMERS. 

FOOLS  laugh  at  dreamers,  and  the  dreamers  smile 
In  answer,  if  they  any  answer  make  : 
They  know  that  Saxon  Alfred  could  not  bake 
The  oaten  cakes,  but  that  he  snatched  his  Isle 
Back  from  the  fierce  and  bloody-handed  Dane. 

And  so,  they  leave  the  plodders  to  their  gains — 
Quit  money  changing  for  the  student's  lamp, 
And  tune  the  harp  to  gain  thereby  some  camp, 
Where  what  they  learn  is  worth  a  kingdom's  crown  : 
They  fashion  bows  and  arrows  to  bring  down 
The  mighty  truths  which  sail  the  upper  air  ; 
To  them  the  facts  which  make  the  fools  despair 
Become  familiar,  and  a  thousand  things 
Tell  them  the  secrets  they  refuse  to  kings. 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 


UNDER  ONE  BLANKET. 

THE  sun  went  down  in  flame  and  smoke, 
The  cold  night  passed  without  alarms, 
And  when  the  bitter  morning  broke 
Our  men  stood  to  their  arms. 

But  not  a  foe  in  front  was  found 
After  the  long  and  stubborn  fight. 

The  enemy  had  left  the  ground 
Where  we  had  lain  that  night. 

In  hollows  where  the  sun  was  lost 
Unthawed  still  lay  the  shining  snow, 

And  on  the  rugged  ground  the  frost 
In  slender  spears  did  grow. 

Close  to  us,  where  our  final  rush 
-    Was  made  at  closing  in  of  day, 
We  saw,  amid  an  awful  hush, 
The  rigid  shapes  of  clay  : 

Things,  which  but  yesterday  had  life, 
And  answered  to  the  trumpet's  call, 

Remained  as  victims  of  the  strife, 
Clods  of  the  Valley  all ! 
146 


Under  One  Blanket. 

Then,  the  grim  detail  marched  away 
A  grave  from  the  hard  soil  to  wrench 

Wherein  should  sleep  the  Blue  and  Grey 
All  in  a  ghastly  trench ! 

A  thicket  of  young  pines  arose, 
Midway  upon  that  frosty  ground  ; 

A  shelter  from  the  winds  and  snows, 
And  by  its  edge  I  found 

Two  stiffened  forms,  where  they  had  died, 
As  sculptured  marble  white  and  cold, 

Lying  together  side  by  side 
Beneath  one  blanket's  fold. 

My  heart  already  touched  and  sad 
The  blanket  down  I  gently  drew 

And  saw  a  sturdy  form,  well  clad 
From  head  to  heel  in  Blue. 

Beside  him,  gaunt  from  many  a  fast, 
A  pale  and  boyish  "  rebel "  lay, 

Free  of  all  pangs  of  life,  at  last, 
In  tattered  suit  of  Grey. 

There  side  by  side  those  soldiers  slept 
Each  for  the  cause  that  he  thought  good, 

And  bowing  down  my  head  I  wept 
Through  human  brotherhood. 

Oh,  sirs !  it  was  a  piteous  thing 
To  see  how  they  had  vainly  tried 


A.  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

With  strips  of  shirts,  and  bits  of  string, 
To  stay  life's  ebbing  tide  ! 

The  story  told  itself  aright ; 

(Print  scarce  were  plainer  to  the  eye) 
How  they  together  in  the  night 

Had  laid  them  down  to  die. 

The  story  told  itself,  I  say, 

How  smitten  by  their  wounds  and  cold 
They'd  nestled  close,  the  Blue  and  Grey, 

Beneath  one  blanket's  fold. 

All  their  poor  surgery  could  do 

They  did  to  stop  their  wounds  so  deep, 

Until  at  last  the  Grey  and  Blue 
Like  comrades  fell  asleep. 

We  dug  for  them  a  generous  grave, 
Under  that  sombre  thicket's  lee, 

And  there  we  laid  the  sleeping  brave 
To  wait  God's  reveille. 

That  grave  by  many  a  tear  was  graced 
From  ragged  heroes  ranged  around 

As  in  one  blanket  they  were  placed 
In  consecrated  ground. 

Aye !  consecrated,  without  flaw, 
Because  upon  that  bloody  sod, 

My  soul  uplifted  stood  and  saw 
Where  CHRIST  had  lately  trod ! 
148 


STATOB  OP  GENERAL,  R.  E.  LEE  (by  Mercier), 
in  Richmond,  Virginia. 


The  Lee  Memorial  Ode. 


THE  LEE  MEMORIAL  ODE. 

RE  AT  Mother  of  great  Commonwealths" 

Men  call  our  Mother  State : 
And  she  so  well  has  earned  this  name 
That  she  may  challenge  Fate 
To  snatch  away  the  epithet 
Long  given  her  of  "great." 

First  of  all  Old  England's  outposts 
To  stand  fast  upon  these  shores 
Soon  she  brought  a  mighty  harvest 
To  a  People's  threshing  floors, 
And  more  than  golden  grain  was  piled 
Within  her  ample  doors. 

Behind  her  stormy  sunrise  shone, 

Her  shadow  fell  vast  and  long, 

And  her  mighty  Adm'ral,  English  Smith, 

Heads  a  prodigous  throng 

Of  as  mighty  men,  from  Raleigh  down, 

As  ever  arose  in  song. 

Her  names  are  the  shining  arrows 
Which  her  ancient  quiver  bears, 
And  their  splendid  sheaf  has  thickened 
Through  the  long  march  of  the  years, 

M9 


A  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

While  her  great  shield  has  been  burnished 
By  her  children's  blood  and  tears. 

Yes,  it  is  true,  my  Countrymen, 

We  are  rich  in  names  and  blood, 

And  red  have  been  the  blossoms 

From  the  first  Colonial  bud, 

While  her  names  have  blazed  as  meteors 

By  many  a  field  and  flood. 

And  as  some  flood  tumultuous 
In  sounding  billows  rolled 
Gives  back  the  evening's  glories 
In  a  wealth  of  blazing  gold  : 
So  does  the  present  from  its  waves 
Reflect  the  lights  of  old. 

Our  history  is  a  shining  sea 

Locked  in  by  lofty  land 

And  its  great  Pillars  of  Hercules, 

Above  the  shining  sand, 

I  here  behold  in  majesty 

Uprising  on  each  hand. 

These  Pillars  of  our  history, 
In  fame  forever  young, 
Are  known  in  every  latitude 
And  named  in  every  tongue, 
And  down  through  all  the  Ages 
Their  story  shall  be  sung. 
150 


The  Lee  Memorial  Ode. 

The  Father  of  his  Country 
Stands  above  that  shut-in  sea 
A  glorious  symbol  to  the  world 
Of  all  that's  great  and  free  ; 
And  to-day  Virginia  matches  him — 
And  matches  him  with  Lee. 

II. 

Who  shall  blame  the  social  order 
Which  gave  us  men  as  great  as  these? 
Who  condemn  the  soil  of  t'  forest 
Which  bring  forth  gigantic  trees  ? 
Who  presume  to  doubt  that  Providence 
Shapes  out  our  destinies  ? 

Fore-ordained,  and  long  maturing, 
Came  the  famous  men  of  old  : 
In  the  dark  mines  deep  were  driven 
Down  the  shafts  to  reach  the  gold, 
And  the  story  is  far  longer 
Than  the  histories  have  told. 

From  Bacon  down  to  Washington 
The  generations  passed, 
Great  events  and  moving  causes 
Were  in  serried  order  massed  : 
Berkeley  well  was  first  confronted, 
Better  George  the  King  at  last ! 


f^C  Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

From  the  time  of  that  stern  ruler 
To  our  own  familiar  days 
Long  the  pathway  we  have  trodden, 
Hard,  and  devious  were  its  ways 
Till  at  last  there  came  the  second 
Mightier  Revolution's  blaze : 

Till  at  last  there  broke  the  tempest 
Like  a  cyclone  on  the  sea, 
When  the  lightnings  blazed  and  dazzled 
And  the  thunders  were  set  free — 
And  riding  on  that  whirlwind  came 
Majestic,  Robert  Lee ! 

Who— again  I  ask  the  question — 
Who  may  challenge  in  debate, 
With  any  show  of  truthfulness, 
Our  former  social  state 
Which  brought  forth  more  than  heroes 
In  their  lives  supremely  great? 

Not  Peter,  the  wild  Crusader, 

When  bent  upon  his  knee, 

Not  Arthur  and  his  belted  knights, 

In  the  Poet's  Song,  could  be 

More  earnest  than  those  Southern  men 

Who  followed  Robert  Lee. 

They  thought  that  they  were  right  and  this 
Was  hammered  into  those 

'5* 


TTie  Lee  Memorial  Ode. 

Who  held  that  crest  all  drenched  in  blood 
Where  the  "  Bloody  Angle  "  rose. 
As  for  all  else?     It  passes  by 
As  the  idle  wind  that  blows. 

III. 

Then  stand  up,  oh  my  Countrymen! 
And  unto  God  give  thanks, 
On  mountains,  and  on  hillsides 
And  by  sloping  river  banks — 
Thank  God  that  you  were  worthy 
Of  the  grand  Confederate  ranks  : 

That  you  who  came  from  uplands 
And  from  beside  the  sea, 
Filled  with  love  of  Old  Virginia 
And  the  teachings  of  the  free, 
May  boast  in  sight  of  all  men 
That  you  followed  Robert  Lee. 

Peace  has  come.     God  give  his  blessing 
On  the  fact  and  on  the  name ! 
The  South  speaks  no  invective 
And  she  writes  no  word  of  blame ; 
But  we  call  all  men  to  witness 
That  we  stand  up  without  shame. 

Nay !     Send  it  forth  to  all  the  world 
That  we  stand  up  here  with  pride, 


A   Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

With  love  for  our  living  comrades 
And  with  praise  for  those  who  died  : 
And  in  this  manly  frame  of  mind 
Till  death  we  will  abide. 

GOD  and  our  consciences  alone 
Give  us  measure  of  right  and  wrong  ; 
The  race  may  fall  unto  the  swift 
And  the  battle  to  the  strong  : 
But  the  truth  will  shine  in  history 
And  blossom  into  song. 

Human  grief  full  oft  by  glory 

Is  assuaged  and  disappears 

When  its  requiem  swells  with  music 

Like  the  shock  of  shields  and  spears, 

And  its  passion  is  too  full  of  pride 

To  leave  a  space  for  tears. 

And  hence  to-day,  my  Countrymen, 
We  come,  with  undimmed  eyes, 
In  homage  of  the  hero  Lee, 
The  good,  the  great,  the  wise ! 
And  at  his  name  our  hearts  will  leap 
Till  his  last  old  soldier  dies. 

Ask  me,  if  so  you  please,  to  paint 
Storm  winds  upon  the  sea  ; 
Tell  me  to  weigh  great  Cheops — 
Set  volcanic  forces  free  ; 


The  Lee  Memorial  Ode. 

But  bid  me  not,  my  Countrymen, 
To  picture  Robert  Lee  ! 

As  Saul,  bound  for  Damascus  fair, 
Was  struck  blind  by  sudden  light 
So  my  eyes  are  pained  and  dazzled 
By  a  radiance  pure  and  white 
Shot  back  by  the  burnished  armor 
Of  that  glory-belted  Knight. 

His  was  all  the  Norman's  polish 
And  sobriety  of  grace ; 
All  the  Goth's  majestic  figure  ; 
All  the  Roman's  noble  face  ; 
And  he  stood  the  tall  exemplar 
Of  a  grand  historic  race. 

Baronial  were  his  acres  where 
Potomac's  waters  run  ; 
High  his  lineage,  and  his  blazon 
Was  by  cunning  heralds  done; 
But  better  still  he  might  have  said 
Of  his  "  works  "  he  was  the  "  son." 

Truth  walked  beside  him  always, 
From  his  childhood's  early  years, 
Honor  followed  as  his  shadow, 
Valor  lightened  all  his  cares  : 
And  he  rode — that  grand  Virginian- 
Last  of  all  the  Cavaliers ! 


A   Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

As  a  soldier  we  all  knew  him 
Great  in  action  and  repose, 
Saw  how  his  genius  kindled 
And  his  mighty  spirit  rose 
When  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe 
Encompassed  him  with  foes. 

But  he  and  his  grew  braver 
As  the  danger  grew  more  rife, 
Avaricious  they  of  glory 
But  most  prodigal  of  life, 
And  the  "Army  of  Virginia" 
Was  the  Atlas  of  the  strife. 

As  his  troubles  gathered  round  him, 
Thick  as  waves  that  beat  the  shore, 
Atra  Cura  rode  behind  him, 
Famine's  shadow  filled  his  door ; 
Still  he  wrought  deeds  no  mortal  man 
Had  ever  wrought  before. 

IV. 

Then  came  the  end,  my  Countrymen, 
The  last  thunderbolts  were  hurled ! 
Worn  out  by  his  own  victories 
His  battle  flags  were  furled 
And  a  history  was  finished 
That  has  changed  the  modern  world. 
156 


The  Lee  Memorial  Ode. 

As  some  saint  in  the  arena 
Of  a  bloody  Roman  game, 
As  the  prize  of  his  endeavor, 
Put  on  an  immortal  frame, 
Through  long  agonies  our  Soldier 
Won  the  crown  of  martial  fame. 

But  there  came  a  greater  glory 

To  that  man  supremely  great 

(When  his  just  sword  he  laid  aside 

In  peace  to  serve  his  State) 

For  in  his  classic  solitude 

He  rose  up  and  mastered  Fate. 

He  triumphed  and  he  did  not  die ! — 
No  funeral  bells  are  tolled — 
But  on  that  day  in  Lexington 
Fame  came  herself  to  hold 
His  stirrup  while  he  mounted 
To  ride  down  the  streets  of  gold. 

He  is  not  dead  !     There  is  no  death  ! 

He  only  went  before 

His  journey  on  when  CHRIST  THE  LORD 

Wide  open  held  the  door, 

And  a  calm,  celestial  peace  is  his : 

Thank  God !  forevermore. 


A   Wreath  of  Virginia  Bay  Leaves. 

V. 

When  the  effigy  of  Washington 

In  its  bronze  was  reared  on  high 

'Twas  mine,  with  others,  now  long  gone, 

Beneath  a  stormy  sky, 

To  utter  to  the  multitude 

His  name  that  cannot  die. 

And  here  to-day,  my  Countrymen, 

I  tell  you  Lee  shall  ride 

With  that  great  "  rebel "  down  the  years — 

Twin  "  rebels  "  side  by  side  !— 

And  confronting  such  a  vision 

All  our  grief  gives  place  to  pride. 

Those  two  shall  ride  immortal 
And  shall  ride  abreast  of  Time, 
Shall  light  up  stately  history 
And  blaze  in  Epic  Rhyme — 
Both  patriots,  both  Virginians  true, 
Both  "  rebels,"  both  sublime  ! 

Our  past  is  full  of  glories 
It  is  a  shut-in  sea, 
The  pillars  overlooking  it 
Are  Washington  and  Lee  : 
And  a  future  spreads  before  us, 
Not  unworthy  of  the  free. 
158 


The  Lee  Memorial  Ode. 

And  here  and  now,  my  Countrymen, 

Upon  this  sacred  sod, 

Let  us  feel :  It  was  "  OUR  FATHER  " 

Who  above  us  held  the  rod, 

And  from  hills  to  sea 

Like  Robert  Lee 

Bow  reverently  to  God. 

159 


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